Nights at Malfoy Manor
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: When Hermione is forced to seek shelter in the last place anyone would look, she finds herself drawn to Draco & becomes the unwitting muse behind a habit Lucius won't admit to having. Complicating the matter, Harry may want more than friendship. Just when hiding from a serial killer targeting muggle-borns was her biggest concern. MATURE CONTENT.
1. Relaxation

**Author's Notes: In my own, happy little world, Hermione & Ron never really worked out. After the dust settled, they tried a relationship and decided they were better as friends.**

**I purposefully chose to give Hermione the 'mudblood' scar from the movies over the line on her throat from the book. I just feel the imagery of the letters marring her flesh is much more potent.**

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own ****_Harry Potter_****, or any affiliated themes/characters, and make no money from the creation or publication of this story.**

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**Chapter One**

Relaxation

_"Why can't I stay with Harry?" She pleaded, but even from the corner of her eye, she saw Harry's shoulders droop, making her aware he'd already thought of that himself and realized why it wouldn't work._

_"The Weasley family's move to Romania removes them from being any immediate protection, leaving only Harry. Therefore should you drop out of sight, anywhere Harry is becomes the first place someone would think to find you," Shacklebolt explained smoothly, trying to be gentle. "Since the Dark Lord's defeat, you're the most well-known muggle-born witch in the whole of the wizarding world. Mention that you are the brightest witch of your age naturally follows. All those like you are being hidden away, but you're far too known, so this is not as simple as sending you to a safe house. Whoever is hunting the muggle-borns is probably dying to get their hands on _you_."_

_"There's _got _to be a better plan than this," she whispered, misery lacing her tone._

_Harry took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "They've agreed to hide you, and they have a _lot _of work to do redeeming their name. They won't let anything happen to you."_

_She turned to him, slipping her arms around his neck to hug him tight. "I don't trust them."_

_Around the side of her head, Harry exchanged a dubious glance with the new minister. "Neither do I, not entirely, anyway. I'll come check on you whenever I can, I _promise._"_

_"It's only temporary," Shacklebolt assured them, "until we figure something else out, or we find who's doing this and stop them. Their home is the _last _place on earth anyone believe you to be. Harry and I are the only ones who know where you're going."_

* * *

That was how Hermione came to be in a bed in Malfoy Manor, of all the dread places in the wizarding world where she could have found herself. She'd agreed to try and rest, because it seemed the only thing to do at the moment, and she'd believed that true . . . so she couldn't help but wonder which god thought it terribly funny to grant her insomnia on this particular night. Though she'd not consulted the clock on her bedside table, she sensed that her bout of tossing and turning had been going on for _hours _by now.

Frowning darkly, she sat up finally and switched on the delicate, ornately crafted lamp set beside the clock. She barely refrained from scooping up the time piece to give it an angry, quizzical scowl. Not that it would do much good; she wasn't certain if she wanted it to tell her it was already morning, or if she wanted the clock to suddenly work backward and tell her it was twelve a.m. rather than _two-thirty _a.m.

This wasn't fair! She was _exhausted, _but what was happening to her fellow muggle-borns haunted her. Their imagined fates rolled around in her mind, again and again, keeping sleep so unimaginably far from her. She felt as though some part of her brain believed that if she tossed _once _more, if she managed to turn at _just _the right moment, then _bam—_sleep would get her!

With a heavy sigh, Hermione pushed her blanket away and threw her legs over the side of the bed to feel the thick, plush carpet beneath her bare feet. During her tour of the manor, she'd seen a huge, beautiful tub in one of the bathrooms on this floor. A good soak in hot, sudsy water was likely to calm her restless mind enough to help her drift off to sleep. Her muscles were sore, anyway, from the tension of this horrible day, alone.

Grumbling quietly to the empty room, she snatched up the thick, soft towels she'd left in the armchair beside the door and poked her head out into the hall. For a moment, she only listened, trying to determine if everyone else was still sleeping. After a time, not a single sound met her ears—unless one counted the portraits along the walls, the occupants of which were snoring softly.

Nodding to herself, she at last slipped out of her room and started walking down the corridor with quiet, carefully measured steps. Oddly the place wasn't nearly as creepy to her as she'd thought it would be . . . what with the basement dungeon and memories of being tortured by Bellatrix.

She paused briefly to shake off a chilling wave of revulsion that followed the second half of that thought, even as she reflexively rubbed a fingertip across the scar on her forearm. Still, that didn't actually make her find her surroundings _creepy_. Halting once more, her hand on the decorative crystal knob of the bathroom door, she wondered if the reason for her feeling— or lack thereof, as seemed the case—was that despite her personal history with the Malfoys, she actually was _safe _here.

Shrugging to herself, Hermione finally turned the knob and stepped into the bathroom . . . only to immediately drop her towels, her face flushing at the sight that greeted her.

Draco Malfoy lounged at the far end of the tub. A damp washcloth covered his face, but she could tell it was him from the fringe of short-ish platinum hair pooling around his head as it rested back against the basin. This could have been worse—she didn't want to think how embarrassing it might have been to walk in on the _other_ male Malfoy in the bath.

She tried to ignore the sight of nice, firm-looking shoulders and lightly sculpted chest muscles, and tried even harder to ignore the bits further down, obscured beneath steaming water.

Hermione was frozen in place, giving a start as he said, "Come in and join me or get out and close the door. Decide fast Granger, you're letting all the steam out of the room."

He . . . couldn't _really _mean that, could he? Chestnut eyes darted around, but only for a moment before he lifted a hand from the water—she was in complete denial that her gaze skimmed the length of his lean, pale arm as it broke the surface—to lift a corner of the cloth, locking a single blue eye on her.

Draco was amused by how lost and bewildered she looked. He'd ignore that her wispy choice of nighttime attire left little to the imagination as it was. "Have you lost your ability to understand plain English?"

She blinked rapidly a few times—forget the mystery of who was murdering muggle-borns, Malfoy had suddenly become a puzzle all his own. "Uh . . . no, no. I'm just not sure if you're serious or joking."

He shrugged, creating gentle ripples in the water and letting the cloth drop back down, oddly intrigued to see what she would do. "Whatever, I'm not going anywhere. So come in or get out, those are your choices."

Her eyebrows shot up as she spared a second to think this over. Simple pride screamed at her to take a single step backward and slam the door. But then . . . What was the harm, really? No one would _ever _believe that she'd walked in on him in the bath and he'd not thrown her out of the room, let alone that he offered for her to share said bath with him.

It all seemed _un_believable enough to even be stamped potentially innocent. And maybe—just maybe—she thought, he'd feel so awkward when he looked back on this moment that he'd avoid her the next few days.

Giving a shrug of her own, and doing her best to act as though it didn't unsettle her at all, Hermione pulled the door closed. Thinking better on it, she flicked the lock into place. This wasn't exactly a moment of her life she wanted someone—be it a house elf, or one of the elder Malfoys—to walk in on. Just the idea of what _anyone _would think was enough to raise the hint of a blush in her cheeks.

"Fine, whatever," she grumbled, stepping up to the tub and slipping off her nightgown and knickers.

Despite her nonchalant tone, she kept a careful eye on him, desperately praying he didn't lift that cloth again until she was ducked down under the water.

Slowly she dipped in a toe, testing the temperature. _Oh, that _is _perfect. _Holding in a blissful sigh, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself, inch by inch, moving in deliberate increments to savor the feel of the heated water seeping through her as she sank into a sitting position.

She glanced down at herself before quickly dipping her hair back into the water. Sweeping the wet locks forward over her shoulders to cover her breasts, she then folded her hands in her lap. It was difficult to completely throw _every _ounce of her modesty out the window—her gaze skirted the water before darting immediately upward again—no matter how _very _much of Draco Malfoy might be visible to her right now.

"So, what do you think?" He asked in a deep, rumbling tone.

"What?" Hermione was immediately _so _flustered she couldn't begin to imagine what he was asking her about—thus far this was already proving to be the most nerve-rattling _relaxing _soak she'd ever had in her life.

He sighed heavily and again raised a hand, this time removing the wash cloth, though his eyes remained closed. "Your predicament? You're playing it cool, sure, but it can't be comfortable staying here. I don't know what would be worse, stuck in a place you hate, or feeling like someone is stalking you, with bated breath, just outside the walls."

"You really _are _rotten, Draco Malfoy," she hissed.

He uttered a smug chuckle.

She leaned forward a little to rub her aching shoulders. "I'd rather not think about the latter, thank you. As for staying here, I honestly don't know. I mean, if someone had told me just this morning that I would a be house guest of the Malfoys, I'd have told them I'd sooner die before subjecting myself to such torture."

"Well, seeing as your choices are the _torture _of hiding out here or risk a miserable death, I can see why it would be a tough call."

Much to her dismay, she flickered her gaze toward him to find that he'd opened his eyes and was now—or perhaps already had been—watching her as she lightly massaged her sore muscles.

"Oh, for pity's sake. Turn around," he muttered, lifting his head and sitting up.

Her eyebrows shot up, arms dropping instantly to splash loudly into the water as she gaped at him. "I'm sorry, what, now?"

He granted her an exasperated eye roll. "It's obvious you're _very _tense. You look like you're ready to jump out of your skin; it's no great mystery why you're awake in the dead of night."

After a moment, Hermione realized what he intended. He was likely only thinking to work the knots from her shoulders; being the spoiled creature he was, he probably had someone to do such things for him, and thus considered it no big deal.

"Okay," she said slowly, turning in the water and putting her back to him. "You, um . . ." she shrugged as she swept her sopping wet hair over one shoulder, "you don't seem tense at all, so why are you awake?"

Draco took a moment, rubbing his hands together beneath the water before lifting them to break the surface and smoothing his palms across her small shoulders. He hid a chuckle at her obvious attempt to bite back a moan—as if her reaction wasn't apparent from the sudden way her head fell forward?

"I'm awake," he said, allowing her to save face by pretending he didn't notice, "because the only time it's possible to relax in this place is when everyone else is asleep."

Hermione tried to keep a hold of his words, but that was proving a challenge. The heat of his skin against hers, the delicate pressure of his fingertips kneading her muscles, had a sinfully mind-numbing effect.

"You know what I've always wondered?" she asked in a hurried and hushed tone.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you hate muggle things so much?"

He arched a brow. "Because wizarding things are just _better_. You know it, I know it, anyone who's ever even _seen _the wizarding world knows it."

She shrugged against his hands, ignoring how odd it felt being so comfortable around Draco Malfoy in this moment—and that it felt so odd only because this sudden turn-around really _didn't _feel odd at all. "That's not actually an answer."

Now he gave a shrug of his own, sliding his hands downward to begin working the middle of her back. "Of course it is, why wouldn't it be?"

"I mean," she murmured, rolling her shoulders forward to curve her back more firmly into his hands, "I can understand you feeling like you're better than muggles—it isn't true, but that's hardly the point—but you regard _all_ things muggle with what I can only call loathing."

"It's just how I was raised, I suppose."

She nodded, diligently ignoring that every now and again the tips of his fingers circled a little too far forward, just barely brushing against the underside of her breasts. "Like you were raised to hate muggle-borns?"

"Well, yes, but you're a special case."

In that moment, even in the heat of the water and against the warmth and comfort of his working hands, Hermione felt a thin sheet of ice coat the pit of her stomach as she wondered how much the killer must _loathe_people like her. She pushed the notion aside, focusing on his touch.

"A special case, am I?"

"Sure."

When he didn't elaborate, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

He managed an ever so faint furrowing of his brow, lifting his eyes from where his hands continued to move over her skin to meet her gaze. "Here you are, born from muggles—muggle world, muggle friends, muggle life—yet you're better at . . . basically _everything _than anyone in the entire school was. People from generation upon generation of pure wizard blood and you best us at our own gifts. It's _our _legacy, but there you were, swooping in and showing _us _how it's all done. That's hardly fair, now is it?"

In a strange way, she understood what he meant. It was ridiculous, but she suddenly got why he hated her so very much. "That makes sense, actually," she said before she even realized the words had escaped.

He frowned, glaring at the back of her head. "And you struck me, don't think I forgot that." The motions of his hands over her skin slowed just a little. "Honestly, who goes around pummeling others with their fists?"

"Maybe it's just the way _I _was raised. Muggles hardly have wands to whip out when they lose their temper, now do they?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

Hermione lowered her head again, letting herself get a bit lost once more in the feeling of his hands on her skin—she needed the distraction to keep from thinking of who might be hunting those like her, or why. "Of course not, it requires thinking of someone other than yourself."

"That's fair."

Before she could stop herself, Hermione found her head turning to once more capture his gaze. "You know, you're much easier to talk to like this."

"Oh?" He couldn't help a chuckle. "You mean relaxed and naked?"

She shook her head, holding back a grin. "In the sense that it makes you vulnerable, yes."

"Well, being around you is much easier to stomach like this."

"Funny."

"Thank you."

"Prat. You know it's odd, but you're actually handsome when you're not making sour expressions." She interrupted herself to let out a short, embarrassed giggle. "I can't believe I just said that. Relaxed and vulnerable is bad."

He gave another small shrug. "To be fair, you're pretty when you're not . . . . Oh, bloody hell, you've always been pretty, but you're _such _a pain in the arse."

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. "_You _think I'm pretty?" More to the point, he'd _always _thought she was pretty?

He simply continued kneading her skin with the tips of his fingers for a few silent moments, the occasional forward-circling of his hands to brush delicately beneath her breasts much more deliberate now. "You were right. Relaxed and vulnerable _is _bad."

Hermione forced a small gulp down her throat, the tone of his voice effortlessly banishing the cold in the pit of her stomach and replacing it with a faint, pooling warmth.

There was something in the way he was looking at her, something in the way she suddenly found herself fascinated by the movement of his lips as he said, "Then again, bad may be an understatement."

She forced her eyes front, the instant heat flooding her had little to do with the temperature of the water. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move out of his touch.

Draco sank his teeth into his bottom lip as his gaze wandered her water-splashed skin. That she didn't pull away gave him two options. He considered, as the very tips of his fingers once more brushed soft, rounded flesh, whether to simply drop his hands and tell her to go . . . . Or take advantage of their mutually _vulnerable _state.

He moved closer and chanced skimming his lips along her shoulder. She trembled against him, and he chanced again, slipping his hands around her to cup her breasts.

Hermione wasn't certain what to do. His hands, his lips, his breath, felt so good on her skin. Everything felt good, but wasn't that what made _everything _wrong? This was Draco Malfoy behind her, brushing his lips against her, teasingly rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger.

She turned her head to look at him and he caught her by surprise, covering her mouth with his. Surprising her further, her tongue darted out, seemingly of its own volition, to trace his lips, seeking entrance.

The groan that escaped him as he opened to her, eagerly caressing her exploring tongue with his own, made her body clench. One of his hands slipped from her breast, trailing along her skin from her side, up to her shoulder, and down the length of her arm to settle his fingers over hers.

Hermione nipped at his tongue, shifting a little closer to him in the water. Her free arm went up, draping loosely around his neck as he led her hand back.

He curved her fingers around his hardened length, guiding her to stroke him.

Her body clenched again, sharply, at the feel of him beneath her fingers and she broke off the kiss, gasping loudly. "I'm sorry," she said in a rushed whisper as she released him and pushed up to stand.

The coolness of the air washed over her, raising goosebumps across suddenly too-sensitive skin, and tightening her nipples instantly. She shuddered, moaning softly.

One of his hands remained on her—when she'd stood, he'd simply allowed it to slip downward, but never actually let go. Resting over her knee, he again took her indecision as an opportunity and dragged his fingers around the back of her leg, to the inside of her knee.

"Well, Granger, are you going or staying," he murmured as he raised his hand slowly, trailing the tips of his fingers upward, stopping as he reached her inner thigh.

She turned just enough to meet his gaze. "I don't know why I'm not leaving," she said, her voice small.

Draco smirked, getting to his feet slowly. As he moved, he circled his arm around her again, curving it over her hip as he spoke, "You know Granger, sometimes it's okay to do something _just_ because it feels good."

"Is it really?" She wondered how she could think at all with the heat of his body against her, with the steady pressure of his fingertips over her skin as they inched closer to the triangle of damp curls between her legs.

He took half a step to one side, capturing her hand in his again and leading it back to him. "Yes. Not everything has to mean something."

"Oh?" She licked her lips, her head falling back against his shoulder as she felt the smooth, warm skin of him beneath her fingers once more. "So then, what exactly are we doing?"

His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as the tips of his fingers dipped between her thighs, between delicate feminine folds, to rub against the sensitive little bead of flesh there. "Releasing some tension," he whispered in her ear.

She nodded, sliding her hand over his length, his fingers covering hers, still, controlling her motions as he rocked his hips against her strokes. Clamping her lips shut, she moaned loudly and followed his lead, slipping her free hand over the one working between her legs and began guiding him.

He made a low, growl-like sound. "I was worried you wouldn't catch on."

"Shut up, Malfoy," she said breathlessly, pressing his fingers in hard, circular motions against her.

Thrusting into her hand, he opened his mouth over the side of her throat, dragging teeth and tongue across her skin as she trembled beneath his fingers. He was trying to hold out, to make her come first, but the feel of his fingers slipping over the slick, pulsing little bead, of her hand moving over him in perfect—albeit guided—strokes was edging him.

The way she was tensing against him, fine tremors running through her as she worked his fingers over her faster, still, made him realize she was close, too.

Hermione bit her lip, muffling her moans as the orgasm tore through her. Trembling, she pulled at his hand, trying to make him rub faster, nearly crying out in relief when he complied, forcing shock after shock of pleasure to course through her.

The sense of how frantic she was, how desperate to have him meet her need, pushed him over the edge and he bit into her shoulder to keep from making a sound as he rocked his pelvis in sharp, jerking motions, allowing her stroking fingers to work the orgasm out of him.

As it ebbed, she sagged back against him, her hips bucking against the steadily slowing circles of his fingertips. He froze in one final, hard thrust, and she continued moving over him, sliding the tips of her fingers along the soft underside, coaxing every last drop from him.

Draco finally stilled her hand, lifting his head from her shoulder to meet her gaze. "I . . . ." He took a moment to catch his breath and tried again. "I can't believe I just did that with you."

She laughed in spite of herself, still leaning against him as she, too, waited for her breathing to slow. "It's a bit late for regrets."

"I said nothing of regret, Granger," he said, his tone reasonable as he placed his hands on her hips and led her out of the tub ahead of him.

"And you bit me." She frowned, examining the teeth marks in her shoulder as she snatched up her towel.

He offered her that infuriating Malfoy smirk. "Well, now we're even for that punch."

* * *

Lucius frowned, wearily rubbing sleep from his eyes as he wandered down the hall. The sound of a door opening gave him a start and he halted. He saw his son's familiar, pale head exit the bathroom and turn away, walking toward his room.

Shaking his head—his nerves still had not settled since Voldemort's_ final_ defeat—he took a step, and immediately stopped again. There, coming out of the doorway to follow Draco down the corridor, was Miss Hermione Granger. He'd never seen her quite like _this, _though; dampness-darkened hair hanging heavy down her back in sleek, clumped tendrils, slender legs bared beneath a short, flimsy, cream-colored gown. The fabric clung to her, giving the impression of stepping from a bath and dressing without toweling off properly. Her usual muggle attire did her _no_ justice.

His brows shot up and he found himself quietly moving down the hall after them.

Hermione turned toward her door and Lucius halted again. She glanced at her shoulder and then hissed at his son, "This better not scar. I already have one from your family and that's quite enough."

"Well, if I'd known you'd complain about it . . . ." Draco stepped up behind her, his arms slipping around her and pulling her back against him.

She moaned—a delicate sound, soft, deceptively innocent, _delicious_. Lucius blinked, giving himself a shake at the . . . _disturbing_ observation, yes, that was the word, disturbing.

He watched his son kiss the girl's neck and then pull away as she opened her door. She stepped inside, slamming it in the young man's face.

Draco's chuckle echoed softly through the hall. "Goodnight to you, too, Granger."

The girl's responding _hmph_ was audible through the door and he chuckled again, turning on a heel to continue down the corridor to his own room.

Lucius turned back toward his room, the reason he'd woken in the first place forgotten. As he walked away, he found himself in a very peculiar state. He was hard, for seemingly no reason. No reason whatever, he insisted.

Because it certainly could have _nothing_ to do with the damp-skinned, barely dressed young woman, or her soft, enticing moan playing over and over in his head.


	2. Uncertainty

**I just want to take a moment to express my appreciation. This fic has been really well received, and you guys have been fabulous. Thank you so much! I hope you continue to enjoy the story, and that I continue to provide you enjoyable reading.**

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**Chapter Two**

Adjustments

Hermione kept her gaze on the dish in front of her, poking at bit of glazed meat with the tip of her fork. The room was silent, save for the soft clanking of utensils as the Malfoys ate lunch. She was still getting over the unexpected event of having a house elf bring her breakfast in bed.

She'd found everything about their habits so odd. Breakfast was brought to them in their rooms _every_ morning, but lunch, tea time and dinner were a family affair. They sat around the unnecessarily long table, Lucius at the head, Narcissa so far away at the other end, Hermione and Draco in the center, seated opposite one another.

They were meticulously attired, too, making Hermione feel horribly under-dressed, despite that she was wearing a crisp, new pale-blue sundress that she quite liked. But, given her surroundings, she felt a bit like a spot of starlight drowning in the center of a black hole.

Draco, for his part, was acting no different toward her than he had _before_ last night's bath time adventure. To her surprise, she was relieved by that, able to easily settle into her familiar role of staring daggers at him whenever their eyes met. Or course, she was also entirely uncertain of how they would have justified behaving any other way.

Every once in a while, however, she would catch him—when no one else was paying them mind—giving her a quick once-over. Just a hurried flick of his gaze over her, the barest hint of a wicked smirk curving his lips, before he returned to scowling at everything in sight. The glances were never long enough to draw a blush from her, but they did send a sweet, thudding spike through her, and cause her breath to come up short.

"Hermione," Narcissa's voice cut through the room.

The girl looked up, startled, her eyes wide as they fixed on the lady of the house. Had Mrs. Malfoy just noticed one of Draco's looks?

Hermione forced a small gulp down her throat. "Yes?"

Offering a brittle smile, the woman pushed her plate aside and clasped her hands in front of her. "I understand you are accustomed to a different sort of . . . home life. However, one condition I must ask of you, at least while you are in _our _home, is that you make the effort to blend in."

Her eyebrows shot up, she didn't dare look at Draco, but Hermione had the feeling his expression mirrored hers at his mother's words. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Well, it's not really hiding if everything about you stands out so very much, now is it?" Shaking her head, Narcissa rose from her seat and walked around the table. "You call too much attention to yourself as you are now, in these . . . muggle trappings. Come with me."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond—ignoring that Mrs. Malfoy said the word _muggle _like the syllables seared her tongue, she wasn't certain she could expect anything less—but already Narcissa was slipping her fingers around the girl's upper arm to pull her to stand. Before Hermione knew it, she was being led out of the dining hall and up the curving staircase to the second floor.

Narcissa ushered Hermione down the corridor, calling for one of the house elves as they went. She found herself glad the older woman was distracted, so she didn't notice the hint of red blooming in Hermione's cheeks as her gaze skittered across the bathroom door. She'd spent nearly twenty minutes simply brushing her teeth that morning, as she kept pausing to stare at the tub. Memories of last night danced around in her mind, sending delicious little ripples through her.

Yes, she was certain now. Draco Malfoy wasn't just rotten, he was _evil_. She couldn't remember a time when she'd been so easily distracted by remembrances of any nature. Clearly how conscious she now was of the surface of her skin, how aware she suddenly was of her body, was _entirely_ his fault.

By the time she reminded herself what was happening around her, she was pulled into the master bedroom. The décor matched the rest of the house in its rich, elegant darkness, but the splashes of blackened-silver velvet here and there, the deep crimson lace trimming the curtains and bed gave the room lush, almost warm touch.

Narcissa tugged Hermione across the room and sat her before a black-lacquered vanity table.

"Mistress?" A thin, reedy voice called from the doorway.

Hermione looked over to see the same house elf who'd brought her breakfast poking her tiny head through the door.

Mrs. Malfoy tapped the table in front of Hermione and instantly the little creature bolted in, hopping up to land on the exact spot her mistress had indicated. Narcissa put a bottle in the creature's long-fingered hands and then ran her own fingers through Hermione's untamed brown hair.

"Mirell, fix this."

Hermione did a double-take upon seeing the bottle- she knew Sleekeazy's Hair Potion when she saw it. She reached out to take it from the elf, "I really don't need-"

To her shock, Mirell slapped at her hands, and turned away, seemingly protecting the bottle. "Mistress said so!"

For a moment, Hermione was a bit confused by a house elf being so bold, despite her personal feelings toward the creatures. But then she reminded herself that if Mirell was anything like Kreacher, then she probably considered Hermione as less than an _actual _witch due to her muggle blood.

Narcissa paid no mind to the fuss as she turned and strode to an enormous standing wardrobe. "You're to apply that each morning while she's having breakfast."

"Yes, mistress," Mirell chirped as she perched on the back of Hermione's seat and began working on the young woman's hair.

Hermione had never been alone with Narcissa Malfoy. She felt incredibly uncomfortable, and not because of the house elf yanking at her scalp.

"Um," she began, her voice a bit low and shaky. She cleared her throat and tried again as she watched the woman rummaging through a swath of dark fabrics in the vanity mirror. "I don't know if anyone's said this, but Harry told us about what you did."

"I'm not certain I know what you mean."

Biting her lip, Hermione tried to discern if Mrs. Malfoy really didn't know of what she spoke, or if she was edging her to drop the subject. Regardless, she pushed on, needing something to stymie her own unease.

"How after the Voldemort tried to kill him, you lied for him. You knew Harry was alive. If not for that moment, if not for that decision, we might have lost the war." She shrugged, causing Mirell to grunt and tug harder at her hair. "And I don't know if anyone said it, but thank you for that."

In the mirror, Narcissa stilled a moment. She turned her head, casting half a glance in Hermione's direction, but not actually looking at her before she resumed picking through items on hangers. "Perhaps you shouldn't thank me. I was only thinking that if the Dark Lord believed the boy was already dead, I would have the chance to get into the castle and make certain my son was all right."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "But couldn't you have still done that if you'd told the truth? Voldemort operated as he would have if Harry'd really been dead."

Narcissa shook her head, her voice a bit muffled as she reached into the depths of the wardrobe. "The Potter boy's survival, and the charade I created, ensured chaos would erupt. Only then could I break away." For a brief moment, the faintest hint of sheer terror colored her words—the sound of pain remembered.

Chestnut eyes dropped from the reflection to the gleaming table top. Sometimes Hermione found it difficult to recall that she was not the only one the Death Eaters and their master had tortured during their brief stay at the manor.

"I didn't care about the outcome of the war, anymore. I just wanted my son," Narcissa concluded, her voice oddly brisk, as though they were making idle chit-chat about the weather.

Again, Hermione bit her lip, but refrained from shrugging this time, since Mirell seemed to enjoy excuses to pull her hair a little _too_ much. "You chose family over fear, over power. And that, still, is something that should be commended. At least I think so."

She looked up at the mirror once more, uncertain if the slip of a smile gracing Narcissa's lips was really there, or a trick of the light.

"That is . . . kind of you to say." Mrs. Malfoy came back to Hermione with a long black lace dress and hung it carefully over the mirror. "Once Mirell is finished with your hair, change into this. Then you may go about . . . whatever it is you wish to do." She paused, briefly tracing a fingertip over a strap of Hermione's blue dress. "Mirell will see to it that more _fitting_ attire is placed in your room."

Mirell nodded, again tugging unnecessarily hard at Hermione's hair. "Yes, mistress!"

"I will leave you to it, then," Mrs. Malfoy said softly as she swept out of the room.

Frowning, Hermione glanced at her own reflection, and the reflection of the cranky little creature behind her. Mirell seemed perfectly content to act as though Hermione was nothing but an over-sized doll, not worth speaking to.

With a heavy sigh, she let her shoulders droop and waited, as patiently as she could, for the elf to finish working on her hair. This had not been at _all_ what she'd imagined her first afternoon under the Malfoy's roof would be like.

* * *

Striding down the hall in the dress Narcissa had given her felt . . . strange. It was elegant, and wispy, the layers and folds of black lace moving easily with her, but still, whenever she chanced a glance down at herself, nothing she saw looked like Hermione Granger.

Bell sleeves fluttered gracefully whenever she moved her arms, and a diamond shaped opening beneath her collar bones bared an oddly lady-like glimpse of skin just above the swell of her breasts. Her hair, sleek and weighted down by the Potion, hung nearly to her waist—she'd forgotten that it was so much longer smoothed out—and when she turned the locks between her fingers, they gleamed a deep golden-brown beneath the light.

She must've been in that chair for two hours. Perhaps longer, she hoped. With any luck, she might've missed a painfully awkward tea with her host family.

Truly, Narcissa was correct about hiding. No one who knew what Hermione Granger usually looked like would recognize her unless they were close enough to see her face. There was no danger of being accidentally glimpsed through a window now, no passerby who might belatedly realize just whom they saw.

All right, so perhaps thus far, the Malfoys weren't being terrible to her. Even if her scalp did still ache from Mirell's gleeful abuse.

She turned toward the third floor staircase, gathering the length of the dress in her fingers so she wouldn't step on it as she climbed. Mirell had—in a very irritated manner—answered only one of the questions Hermione had eventually asked out of boredom, informing her that the third floor held the library.

As she reached the landing, she was reminded of the one piece of her appearance that Narcissa had not been able to camouflage. Beneath the layers of black lace, she still wore the cream-colored wedge heel sandals that had accompanied her sundress. Drat, it hadn't occurred to her to ask Mirell what would become of the dress.

Holding in a hopeless sigh—what she was certain would only be the first of many during her stay at Malfoy Manor—she moved down the corridor. The first door on the left, which according to the indignant house elf was the entrance to the library, stood open.

Hermione walked inside, her steps light, and eyes wide as she took in the high, shelf-lined walls. Pressing a hand over her heart, she broke into a smile. "I'm in heaven," she whispered, all pretense forgotten as she strode into the center of the room.

She turned in a slow circle, gaze trailing over the innumerable leather spines before she spotted something that brought her crashing back to earth. There, tucked away at a desk in a corner of the room, sat Lucius Malfoy. Clearly absorbed in whatever he was perusing, the man had yet to notice her.

Damn, it hadn't crossed her mind to ask. She'd been sort of afraid that her hosts would tell her the library—the one room in any building that made her existence worth living—was off-limits to her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, instead observing him silently for a moment. Hermione hadn't really laid eyes upon him since the Battle of Hogwarts. Thick curtains were tied back from the windows, the afternoon sun streaking through the glass and lighting on his long hair, sharpening the contours of his face.

She remembered how he used to keep it tied back with a length of black ribbon. His features hadn't changed much, there was no true sign of having aged on him, but he looked worn, tired. His subdued nature was not at all the same man she recalled from her childhood.

_It's like he's broken,_ she thought, somewhat saddened by the notion. She'd never had a nice thing to say about the Malfoys, but seeing someone like Lucius Malfoy brought so low was strangely disheartening.

Finally, Hermione opened her mouth, taking only a step nearer to his corner of the room. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Even from the distance, she could swear she spied a flicker of impatience jet across his face.

He raised his pale head from his work to look at her. "Miss Gran—" his words slid off as he simply stared at her.

To think, for a moment she'd almost forgotten about her changed appearance.

Lucius cleared his throat and tried again, ignoring that her newly-sleek hair was reminiscent of how she'd looked last night. "Miss Granger?"

She attempted to offer him a kind smile, and failed miserably, the resulting expression a weak, pitiable lifting of the corners of her mouth. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I was only wondering if I might borrow a book to read?"

A smirk that nearly reminded her of the old Lucius Malfoy tugged at his lips as he dropped his gaze back to the words before him. "I remember well your reputation, Miss Granger. Are you certain _one_ will suffice?"

She let out a small laugh, looking once more to the high shelves. "Perhaps not. All the same, may I?"

He nodded without raising his head again, gesturing with a hand toward the many books surrounding them. "Help yourself."

Nodding, she turned toward the nearest shelf. She had no idea where to begin, but she wasn't sure it mattered. This was the library of a wizarding family—a formerly dark one, at that—they probably had books she'd never even heard of.

Hermione ran a fingertip along a few of the spines, searching for just the right title, that appeared just the proper thickness, that might keep her occupied for longer than a few hours. Every so often, she thought she could feel Mr. Malfoy watching her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he appeared to not have moved a muscle from the moment he'd resumed his reading.

That same tired, worn feeling seemed to hang over him like a cloud.

"May I say something?" The words fell from her lips before she could stop them and she cringed, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the books in front of her. But then she'd given Narcissa the benefit of a few kind words, why not do the same for him?

"As Draco tells it, there is no stopping you from speaking your mind, Miss Granger."

She took that as a yes, blatantly ignoring his exhausted, mildly insulting tone. "You're not the same man I met as a child."

Grey eyes lifted from printed words to lock on the young woman's back. Lucius wasn't at all certain where she could be going with this. "Am I not, now?"

The girl shook her head. "I remember, all those years ago, thinking that you reminded me of the first time I saw a lion at the zoo."

Arching a brow, he sat back, folding his hands across his chest. "How so?" He couldn't help but feel intrigued at the parallel she was attempting to draw; he didn't think anyone had ever tried to call Slytherin wizard anything so majestic before.

"Well, it's not as easy to put into words, but there's this proud creature sitting there, sort of regal without even trying. It didn't need to do anything, but you just sort of knew, by the very look of it, that it could be ferocious when it chose. And in a way, that knowledge made those moments when it was quiet, when it looked peaceful, absolutely terrifying."

Hermione's shoulders drooped just a bit as she shook her head, a smile touching her lips as she slid a book from its place upon the shelf. "Magnificent beasts, really. That sort of quiet ferocity, that pride and elegance and surety. Yes, that day you reminded me of a lion."

"Magnificent," he repeated in a whisper, his voice far too low for her to hear from where she stood.

"Voldemort stole that from you," she went on, her tone unexpectedly harsh, but then she'd never been one to hide her hatred of the Dark Lord, "as he stole so many things from so many people. You could be that proud man again, I think; if you wanted."

Unaware of the impact of her words, the young woman continued her search. She saw him so differently than he'd come to view himself. Miss Granger had every reason in the world to loathe and despise him, yet she thought him _magnificent_?

Once more, that delicious, tempting sound she'd uttered last night echoed through his head. As he watched her move along the shelf, his mind wandered.

_He stood from the desk and crossed the room, slipping a hand around her elbow and turning her to face him. Those large, dark eyes of hers widened further, still, as she stared up at him._

_The girl opened her mouth to speak, but he dipped his head, brushing his lips over the patch of skin bared by the dress. Teeth scraping gently, his tongue darted out, tasting her._

_That sweet, perfect noise escaped her and he ducked a bit lower, nipping at her breasts through the fabric._

_Her fingers raked through his hair, clutching his head to her. Lucius let out a pained groan, one arm slipping around her to pull her against him as the other pulled the troublesome length of her dress up around her thighs._

"_Mr. Malfoy," she whimpered, her breath coming out in short, rasping spurts as she eagerly hooked a leg around his hips._

_He didn't answer, teeth grazing against hardening, lace-covered nipples as he fumbled to open his trousers with his free hand._

"_Mr. Malfoy . . . ."_

_He slid into her, relishing how she clenched around him, so warm and wet, and so very, _very,_ tight._

"Mr. Malfoy, are you okay?"

He blinked and looked up, finding Hermione standing before his desk, her brown eyes full of concern.

"You looked, I don't know, like perhaps you're not feeling well. Should I call someone for you?"

His jaw fell open for only the briefest second before he caught himself. Eyes narrowing, he gave a minute shake of his head. "No, thank you Miss Granger, I'm fine."

Shrugging, she displayed the books she was borrowing as she nodded. "If you're certain. Um, I'll return these as soon as I'm finished. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

He responded with a curt nod of his own as he returned his attention to what he was doing. "Thanks is not required, Miss Granger. As long as you are here, you may treat this room as your own."

She opened her mouth to say another thank you, but felt certain she might be irritating him by now. Only offering one last nod, she turned on a heel and crossed the library to the door.

Hermione was absolutely terrified and ashamed of her own imagination. For a moment there, she'd thought she glimpsed him looking at her the same way Draco had last night. What was wrong with her that she could—even for the briefest second—think Lucius Malfoy, of all men, would ever look at _her_ with something as terribly wrong as lust in his eyes?

* * *

He watched her leave from the corner of his eye, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard her footfalls descend the staircase. He didn't dare get up from behind the desk, grateful for its presence in the first place, as it shielded the shameful condition in which that quick, yet troublesome daydream had left him.

* * *

Hermione had sealed herself in her room, away from distracting former-dark wizards and mean-spirited house elves, and buried her nose in the first of her borrowed books. She was troubled that she'd nearly finished with it, already, when she heard the delicate chime beckoning members of the house back to the table for dinner.

Speeding through the last handful of pages as she walked to her door, she set the book on her night table, deciding to exchange it for a new one immediately after dinner. Her thoughts in the library—awful, embarrassing thoughts—clearly proved that she would need much to keep her ever-working mind occupied while she was here.

Dinner proved another painfully quiet and proper meal. No one even tried to make conversation. It boggled her mind, she didn't understand how they even functioned as a family.

God, she missed her parents. But they understood that staying with them, even reaching out to them while she was here, might endanger them.

She avoided looking at Draco or Lucius—the former for fear they might give something away, the latter out of utter embarrassment. Every so often, she would catch Narcissa glancing at her, as though assessing her own work.

The doorbell rang, and suddenly all four looked up from their plates. No one knew who was involved in the murders; no one knew how information was reaching the killer. Any visitor could potentially lead to Hermione's death.

That uncertainty made the simple ringing of a doorbell the most terrifying sound she'd ever heard.

Lucius hissed something at Draco, nodding in Hermione's direction as soon as his son looked at him while Narcissa called for Mirell.

Hermione had no time to think as Draco darted around the table, pulling her from her chair by her arm and ushered her out of the room. The tiny, always angry Mirell bustled past, clearing the _extra _place from the table.

Narcissa motioned for another elf—Hermione hadn't caught this one's name, she was only glad the purebloods were much kinder to their servants since all that had happened, even if said servants treated _her_ poorly—to answer the door.

"It may be nothing," Draco whispered in her ear.

She nodded, forcing a gulp down her throat and straining to listen.

The elf's creaky voice traveled through the house as he announced the visitor. "Mr. Potter is here."

"Harry," she breathed the name, a smile spreading across her lips.

Draco found the sudden light in Granger's face annoying.

"I didn't mean to bother you during dinner. I promised Hermione I'd check on her."

Her best friend's voice had never sounded quite so wonderful as it did in that moment.

"Granger, wait," Draco said as she slipped from his grasp and darted back into the dining room.

"Harry!"

Hermione's voice cut through the house, but the girl accompanying it did not look like his best friend, even as she bounded directly up to him, as Hermione would. Even as she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him so tight he thought she might strangle the life from him, as Hermione would.

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently as he strolled back into the room. Was it normal for those two to be so . . . touchy-feely? _Must be a muggle-thing_, he thought, the bridge of his nose crinkling in distaste. His own mild discomfort kept him from witnessing a similar look of ill ease flitting, briefly, across his father's face.

"What are you doing here?"

"I promised I'd come see you whenever I could. And I've brought you something. But first," he stepped back from her, giving her a slow, pointed once-over. "What are you wearing?"

Frowning as she dropped her head to look at herself—again, she'd forgotten about her un-Hermione-like appearance—she only shrugged. "I'm in hiding. Mrs. Malfoy made the point that it doesn't help to tuck me away if I still stand out."

"Oh," Harry said with a forced brightness, the simplicity of the observation hadn't occurred to him, as he offered Narcissa a nod. "Thank you."

That brittle smile Hermione had seen earlier graced the older woman's lips as she returned the nod.

"Has there been any news?"

Harry's expression crumbled almost instantly. "No, nothing yet. I'm sorry."

Hermione's shoulders slumped, but she didn't have time to think on it as Harry slipped away from her and disappeared into the foyer. He returned with a cage containing a fat, scrunch-faced ball of messy orange fur.

"Crookshanks!"

Harry smiled as Hermione immediately set to letting the cat free and scooping it into her arms. "I said I brought you something." Immediately, he felt Narcissa Malfoy's gaze boring holes into him; he hadn't thought to ask if they minded the foul-tempered beast being in their home. "I'm sorry, but he really missed her. And, what's a familiar without its witch?"

The woman set her jaw, but said nothing. Really, what _could_ she say to the boy who'd saved her son's life?

Biting his lip, Harry looked at Hermione over the top of Crookshanks head as she hugged the beast. If anyone else tried that, the cat would shred them to bits. "I can't stay," he said suddenly.

She looked up from the cat into her best friend's eyes. "What?"

He forced a comforting smile. "At least not today. I really only stopped by to check on you and bring you Crookshanks. I'll come back as soon as I can, though."

"Oh," Hermione said quietly, whispering to the cat before setting it down on the floor. She waited until the creature bounded away, heading to her room. "I understand."

"Hermione, I'm sorry. I really—"

She surprised them both when her hand shot out, her fingers pressing gently over his lips. "It's okay Harry, really. There's a lot of work for you to do."

He nodded stiffly, unable to really move until she slid her fingers away.

"I'd like to get back to eating, if that's all right with you two," Draco said, irritation edging his voice.

Harry leaned close, whispering in Hermione's ear. "I swear, I'm never going to get used to him."

She giggled, praying a blush didn't creep into her cheeks as she thought briefly back on what she and Draco had done last night. She couldn't imagine trying to explain it to Harry.

"All right, go, before I get used to you being here." Again she hugged him, only pulling away when Narcissa made an impatient noise.

He pressed a kiss to Hermione's forehead and dropped his arms from her. Turning on a heel, Harry allowed the house elf escort him out.

Hermione and Draco resumed their seats, but she was strangely unsurprised when Mirell brought her plate back and half the food was gone. According to the elf, she'd thought the girl was finished and had begun scraping the meal into the trash.

She only sighed and shook her head. Draco hid a chuckle. In all their years at Hogwarts, he'd not managed to give her nearly as much trouble as one uppity house elf had done in a single day.

"Hermione," Narcissa called across the table, her gaze on her dish. "It isn't my concern what sort of relationship you two have, but I would appreciate if, in the future, when the Potter boy visits, you employ a bit more ladylike behavior."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she looked up from her meal. "Harry and I are just friends!"

The blurted words drew Narcissa's gaze and she raised her head, fixing Hermione with an glare of admonishment.

Something about the look reminded Hermione of her own mother when she overstepped her bounds. Nodding slowly, she lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. Harry and I are just friends," she repeated in a softer voice.

Nodding, the older woman said, "I would like you to call me Narcissa. And of course, you'll call Mr. Malfoy Lucius."

The expression that darted across Lucius Malfoy's face bordered on some sort of terror. Draco nearly choked on a bit of food as he bit back a laugh.

Narcissa frowned at her husband. "She is our guest."

"I don't think I could call parents of my . . ." she shared a quick glance with Draco, "former classmate by their first names."

"I would like you to try while you are here."

Hermione gave a pained smile, forcing a nod. "Certainly, I'll try. . . . Narcissa."

Draco looked only too amused by her discomfort and Hermione found herself sorely tempted to kick him under the table.

* * *

"Mother's acting strange."

Draco's voice stopped Hermione as she reached the library door.

"How so?" Lucius said, his words soft in a way that made Hermione think he was once again working on something.

"This business with Granger. She's practically turned the girl into a living doll and what was that nonsense about ladylike behaviour?"

Hermione had really and truly been about to turn and head back down the stairs, until she'd realized the conversation involved her.

Lucius rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to end his night being forced to think about the Granger girl. "I'm not certain I understand what bothers you."

"That's the thing, I'm not entirely sure." Draco frowned, trying to put his finger on why his mother's actions were troubling, but unable to name a reason. "But somehow . . . I don't know, it feels like mother's _schooling _her. Doesn't it?"

Lucius fixed his gaze on his son's, but only for a moment before looking away again. "You know your mother hasn't been quite right since . . . ." he pointedly allowed his voice to trail off, still refusing to speak about those terrible days. "None of us have been."

When Draco offered no response, but continued to stand there with a thoughtful scowl upon his face, his father commented further. "I don't believe this is a matter with which we should concern ourselves, Draco. Perhaps grooming the girl is a good thing for your mother, a distraction; something on which she can focus for the time being." He tacked on, without realizing he was speaking aloud, "At least she got the girl out of that dreadful muggle attire."

Draco's brows lifted as he nodded. His father was right, of course. He found it odd that Lucius had noticed Granger's clothes, but simply shook his head, intent on putting the entire bizarre day out of his thoughts.

* * *

Hermione turned over in bed, groaning when she, again, couldn't sleep. This time, however, it wasn't nervousness or discomfort that kept slumber at bay.

Each time she closed her eyes, she heard the sound of Draco's breath rasping in her ear; felt the warmth of him beneath her fingers. She writhed beneath her blankets, pressing her thighs together to ease the delicious pulse thudding there, but that only made it worse.

Frowning, and arguing with herself the entire time, she climbed out of bed and crossed the room. Crookshanks let out a sleepy, mumbled growl, as she passed, stretching out on the arm chair, but not waking.

Drawing a hopeless sigh, she opened the door and ducked her head into the hall, as she had the night before.

* * *

Draco's eyes opened, narrowing immediately and dangerously, at the sound of a knock at his door. Just when he'd been drifting off, too.

Grumbling, he dragged himself out of bed and opened the door. The last thing he'd expected to see was Hermione Granger standing there, in the same little nightgown as last night, wearing the very same uncertain expression.

His eyebrows shot up.

Hermione matched his look of surprise with one of her own as she said softly, "I . . . I'm not sure why I'm here."

Nodding, Draco took a step backward into the room. She followed him inside, her gaze darting about her new surroundings as he closed the door behind her.


	3. Troubling

**I'm dying to ask: if any of the readers of this fic are handy with a sketch pad, for fanarts depicting scenes from ****_Nights_****, or if anyone is good with fanvids (or knows someone who is) for a Dramione vid to the Bastille song "Haunt"?**

**I can't offer much more than a special mention of thanks, or the gift of a one-shot fic in exchange.**

**Kindly PM me if you'd like to take me up on this. Thank you :)**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Troubling

_Her hand delicately trailed down his face, tracing along his lips. He nipped at her fingertips, bringing a giggle out of her._

_She pressed her body close to his, dragging her fingers lower, still, over his jaw, his throat, to move in teasing little touches down his chest and abdomen. Her hand dipped lower, pulling him free of his night clothes._

_He ducked his head, catching one of her nipples between his teeth and flicking the tip of his tongue over it._

_Her eyes drifted closed as she inhaled sharply. Uttering a soft moan as he suckled and nibbled at her flesh, she straddled him._

_He moved his head to watch, transfixed as she grasped his length and lifted him, positioning herself carefully before guiding him inside her. He slid in, entering her easily. For a brief moment he feared he might come from the way her body—moist, and warm, and _so_ deliciously tight—gripped him, alone._

_A pained growl tore from his throat as she began rocking against him. He caught both of her slender wrists in one hand, pinning them to the small of her back, forcing her to still as he took over, rolling his hips to push inside of her, deep and hard, again and again._

_Shifting a little against the bed, he sat up to press long, warm and wet kisses along her throat._

_She struggled under his hold, pushing down against his thrusts as she let out ecstatic, hiccuping breaths. He could tell she was marveling at the way he moved—that she thought he knew _exactly_ what she needed._

_She was trying to delay her body's reaction, but already her muscles were beginning to tense, her limbs giving into a slight tremble. His strokes became sharper and more jerking suddenly and she screamed as he forced her over the edge._

_He held himself back, waiting until that perfect moment when she was so lost in her orgasm that her body locked around him. Grazing his teeth along her throat, he ground his pelvis upward against her, thrusting into her faster and harder._

_He pulled her to him so tightly as he came that he thought he might be hurting her a little. She only moaned louder, the tremor in her voice making him think she enjoyed the hint of pain, that it only mixed with the pleasure spiraling through her, adding to the sensation._

_He whispered her name again and again in rushed tones, and realized dimly she was speaking, too—crying out, whimpering pleadingly, _begging_ him not to stop._

* * *

Lucius awoke with a start, that damned girl's voice echoing through his head. Embarrassment flooded him as his gaze darted about his darkened bedroom.

Holding deathly still as his quickened breath slowed, he listened to the only sound that met his ears—the soft, peaceful inhalations of Narcissa as she slept.

Either he'd been impossibly quiet during that . . . awful, yes, _awful_, dream, or she'd started taking magical remedies to help her sleep, again. It seemed every few months she found an excuse to go back to them.

Grey eyes rolling, he stared daggers up at the ceiling as he shifted his hips beneath the blanket. Shifted, and froze.

His face flushed and he forced a small gulp down his throat as he glanced across the bed. Narcissa's back was to him and he risked lifting the covers. Raising his head, he looked down the length of his body to find that no, he was not hard, but the confirmation brought little relief.

He could tell from the damnable sticky moistness coating his skin that he wasn't hard not because he hadn't been aroused, but because he'd spent himself in his sleep.

Dropping the blanket back into place, he rolled his eyes in irritation. How dreadfully embarrassing. He needed to go clean himself up from this . . . wholly _unacceptable_ reaction.

Taking a moment to still his thoughts, as though nothing was wrong, he sat up and pushed back the blanket. Shaking his head in disappointment at his own—clearly deluded—imagination, he climbed out of bed and exited the room.

* * *

Draco watched her much like one might watch a curious new creature at the zoo as she stood in the center of his room. Her wide, chestnut eyes moving over the brown-black wood paneling of the walls, the thick dark, _dark, _red velvet curtains.

"So," he began, clearing his throat. "You pop up at my door in the middle of the night, but you have no idea what you're doing there?"

Hermione turned slowly on a heel to look at him. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back, with almost regal posture, against one of the posts. His dark eyebrows had disappeared into his pale, sleep-mussed hair and, just her luck, it appeared that Draco Malfoy was most comfortable sleeping without a shirt.

She sent a small gulp down her throat as she forced her gaze not to stray from his face. Had she really _not_ noticed this little detail when he'd opened the door a moment ago?

With a shrug, she nodded. "Yes. I . . . I don't know, I couldn't sleep and—"

"And so waking me seemed the thing to do?"

"Well, last night you made it sound like you don't sleep well at night, anyway, so . . . " she trailed off as she watched him shake his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Calm down Granger. You're doing that thing where your words all run together."

Her brow furrowed. "Sorry"

"I was only teasing you." He held a hand out to her.

Slipping her fingers into his, she allowed him to pull her closer.

"Did you want to talk or pick up where we left off last night?"

The laugh that escaped her had a nervous tremor about it, but the set of her shoulders eased. "I just . . . ." she turned to sit beside him, again shrugging as she met his gaze. "I just hate that no one seems to know _anything_, yet."

Her hand still in his, he offered a shrug of his own as he turned her fingers over in his, seemingly examining them while he spoke. "I know you've probably devoted a portion of your impossibly large brain to counting the passing of seconds while you're here, but it's only been, what? A day and a half?"

"Patience, when my life is so weighted by the unknown and I can't do anything about it, is not something I can manage."

He frowned thoughtfully, tipping his head as he raised his other hand to trace his fingertips along the surface of her nails. "You know, you have very pretty hands, Granger."

She worked up half a grin for the unexpected, if slightly odd, compliment. "Thank y—"

"You know, for a filthy little mudblood, and all."

"You bastard," she muttered, though she couldn't drop her smile, not when she'd accepted the term as a badge of honor.

And not when he said the words with that little grin he probably thought she hadn't seen. Besides, he'd not called her that in _ages_. It made her wonder if he'd stopped thinking of her by that label long before the day Bellatrix had carved the letters into her skin.

She watched his face as she said, "Thank you."

He met her gaze, eyebrows inching upward. "For insulting you?"

Hermione bit her lip, unable to ignore how he briefly lowered his eyes to watch as the bit of soft, pink skin slipped from between her teeth. "No, git. For trying to distract me from thinking about all this."

"Oh," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Caught that, did you?"

"Almost didn't, you were very subtle."

That familiar smirk spread across his lips. "You know, I can think of much better methods for distracting you."

An instant blush flooded her cheeks, that sweet little jolt pulsing between her thighs again. Wasn't this really why she'd come to him? For a bit of . . . distraction? Sad to think he realized that sooner than she realized it, herself.

Again biting her lip—again noting how he watched as she did so—she asked, "And you're sure what you have in mind would work?"

Letting her hand slip from his, he pushed himself back on the bed until he was seated against the headboard. "Only one way to find out, isn't there?" His expression turned serious as he crooked a finger at her.

Forcing a breath, she nodded, climbing up on her hands and knees to crawl across the bed to him. As she settled over his lap, he reached up, slipping one of her nightgown's straps down her shoulder.

"You really should take this thing off," he murmured.

She shuddered, lowering her head to see that he'd bared her breast. "Well, you could've said—"

His lips closed over her nipple as he splayed a hand against the small of her back, holding her to him. Draco's other hand slid beneath her nightgown, tugging impatiently at her knickers.

She made a small, feline noise in the back of her throat as she sank her fingers into his hair. Giggling breathlessly when he tugged again, she shifted, raising her knees in turn to help him pull off her lacey, red undergarment.

He pulled back only enough to whip the nightgown off her and toss it aside. He tilted his head, catching her other nipple between his teeth and flicking the tip of his tongue over it.

She whispered fearfully, not wanting him to stop, but suddenly all too aware of how hard he was beneath her, "I—I don't think we should have sex."

He let her breast slip from his mouth and met her gaze. "I don't recall saying we had to."

To her surprise, he slid his hands to cup her bottom, holding her in place as he began scooting his body down the bed. His teeth and lips dragged from her breast, down her ribs and over her abdomen. He paused, teasingly swirling his tongue in her navel.

She tried to make sense of what was happening, but before she could think, he'd moved low enough to rest his head against the pillows and used his hands on her body to move her until she straddled his shoulders.

Draco circled his arms around her thighs, fingers slipping down to part delicate, feminine folds. He lifted his mouth, eyes drifting closed as the tip of his tongue swept over sensitive flesh. Sealing his lips against her as he suckled at the precious little bead, he slipped one hand away, tucking it between their bodies.

Hermione threw her head back, moaning softly. She raised up a little, giving him room as his fingers moved into her, every motion perfectly timed to the stroking of his tongue. All she could do for a long moment was looked down at him, watching helplessly as his mouth worked between her thighs.

His tongue swirled and flicked, teeth ever so gently nipping now and again. He was lost in it, savoring the taste of her and the feel of her body clenching around his fingers.

One hand in his hair, cradling his head against her, she arched her back, her other arm reaching down his body. Her fingers slid into his pajama bottoms, to grasp his hardened length.

He let out a groan, but his pace didn't falter. He opened his eyes and unwound the arm that held her parted for his mouth. Reaching up, he slid a finger over her lips.

Only at that touch did she realize that she was so caught up that she'd been moaning the entire time, _loudly_. She grazed his fingertip with her teeth and whispered, "Sorry."

He smirked against her as his eyes drifted closed once more, slipping his hand away from her face. His fingers slid over hers—as he had last night—to guide the motion of her hand over his length.

Her muscles went taut, every inch of her tightening around him as the orgasm flooded through her body. She trembled under the stroking and swirling of his tongue, against the quick, uneven delving of his hand. She wished she could watch Draco's face, buried as it was between her thighs. His hand working hers over him, his hips lifting from the bed to push himself through their strokes, added to the warm, sumptuous pleasure dancing through her.

A deep, growling groan escaped his throat as he forced his length through her fingers faster. He came hard, shuddering beneath her, and when he stilled beneath her in the throes of orgasm, Hermione Granger did the most wonderful thing ever—frozen over him in the just same way only a moment ago, she started _moving_, again.

The girl jerked her hips, grinding herself against his mouth, forcing his fingers to continue thrusting into her as her hand slid over him in frenzied strokes until she worked every last drop from him.

* * *

Lucius sighed heavily, feeling calmer, more distanced from the troubling matter, now that he was cleaned up, dressed in a fresh set of night clothes. Opening the bathroom door, he stepped out into the corridor and gave a long stretch. He rolled his head on his neck as he turned toward his bedroom.

"You, boy," one of his father's paintings hissed angrily.

Lucius frowned darkly. The occupants of the older portraits never seemed to remember that _h_e was the master of the manor now, and the man _they_ remembered as Mr. Malfoy was long dead.

"What?" he asked in an icy whisper, not even gracing the painting with a flick of his gaze.

"Some of us are having trouble sleeping. There's a ruckus coming from your son's room. Go tell him to shut it!"

His face fell and his shoulders sagged. What the devil could the boy be up to at this hour? Pointedly holding his eyes from rolling yet again, he once more turned in the opposite direction of the imagined sanctuary of his own room, and started for his son's door. He diligently ignored the door to the Granger girl's room.

Shaking his head tiredly, he faced Draco's door and raised his hand to knock. A hair's breadth from connecting with the wood, his hand stilled. The sound coming from the other side of the door was hardly a ruckus. And it most certainly was _not_ being made by his son.

_She_ was in there, emitting sounds that made her delicious little moan from last night seem like a disinterested sigh in comparison. Setting his jaw, he began to turn away . . . but couldn't will himself to take a step. Instead, even as he cursed inwardly, even as he scowled at his own actions, he leaned closer to the door, straining to catch more of her ecstatic cries.

His eyes drifted closed, that _awful_ dream running through his mind again. The imagined feel of her fingertips trailing over his skin, the taste of her beneath his wandering lips.

A loud snore erupted from one of the portraits behind him, snapping Lucius back to the present moment. He opened his eyes, gaze darting about the corridor. With a new flush of embarrassed discomfort coloring his cheeks, he found he'd reacted to her voice, again. Worse still, when he came to his senses, he realized he'd inched a hand downward. His fingers so terribly close to touching himself.

Snatching his hand back, he glared at the door and finally turned away. Rather than walking back to his bedroom, however, he retreated to one of the bathrooms, all but slamming the door closed behind him.

* * *

Hermione toppled off of Draco, collapsing beside him on the bed as they caught their breath. In a daze, she thought that if she listened closely enough, she could hear the painting outside his door snoring. There was a brief creaking sound, but she attributed that to the manor's age.

"So," he said quietly, pausing to exhale loudly, "that was fun."

She burst out laughing and reached across to slap him on the shoulder. "What if this becomes a habit?"

"Hmm," he squared his jaw in thought as he stared up at the ceiling. "Don't know. Would that be so bad, though?"

"Don't know," she whispered, turning onto her side to look at him.

He only turned his head, meeting her gaze. "Certainly keeps us from thinking about more terrible things."

A smile touched her lips. "Keeps us from thinking at _all_ is more like it."

"There's a difference?"

"I think," she considered her words carefully, reaching over to run the tip of her finger over his lips. "We shouldn't plan for these moments."

"Just sort of let them happen?"

She nodded.

He shrugged, arching a brow. "Works for me."

With a tired groan, Hermione sat up, reaching for her nightgown. She wouldn't have minded simply climbing under the covers and falling asleep there, but she remembered Mirell would bring her breakfast. She imagined the bratty little thing would enjoy reporting Hermione's whereabouts to the lady of the house a bit too much. For some reason, the idea of receiving a quelling look of bitter disappointment from Narcissa was all the incentive Hermione needed to return to her own room.

He silently watched her slip it over her head, but when she reached for her knickers, he caught her wrist.

"Malfoy!"

"No, those stay here." He hooked his fingers into the frilly bit of crimson and held it up in the air. "Never would have thought. Flashy little mudblood."

She feigned a scowl, her brows shooting upward. "You have_ got_ to stop calling me that."

Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he sat up and leaned close to her, his breath ghosting over her mouth as he whispered, "Make me."

Her lids drifted downward and she shifted closer to him before snatching the undergarment from his hand and bouncing backward, off the bed, to stand.

"You are no fun, Granger."

She smirked, spinning on a heel to cross the room. "I think I've already proved you wrong about that twice. Good night, Malfoy."

He grinned, dropping back against his pillows and stretching. "Good night, Granger."

* * *

Lucius covered his mouth with his free hand, muffling a pained groan as he came, hard—_shamefully _hard. Leaning against the wall, he waited for his breathing to slow and his pounding heartbeat to steady.

How had he gotten to this point so quickly? He was tired, that was all. Yes, he thought with a nod. That made sense, he wasn't in complete control of his faculties because he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rested. He turned toward the sink and switched on the faucet. Shaking his head, another wave of disappointment at himself crashed over him as he—for the second time in one night—cleaned himself up.

He caught the gaze of his reflection in the mirror. For a long moment he simply stared into his own eyes. _Magnificent_, she'd called him. He managed a mirthless, bitter grin at himself. Surely there was nothing magnificent about him, now.

Grey eyes drifting closed, he switched off the faucet and uttered an exhausted sigh. He hoped, _desperately_, that this mess with the mudblood killings was sorted soon. He did not know how long could suffer beneath the terrible weight of this humiliating secret.


	4. Developments

**If anyone is a member of the site Granger Enchanted, please PM me. I just joined & have a few questions about your experiences there.**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Developments

The following night Hermione lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. But then, she felt as though she'd spent the entire day staring blankly at things.

An air of awkwardness hung over the house from the moment she set her foot outside her bedroom door that morning. It seemed to permeate everything, and yet she couldn't be certain anyone else had noticed.

Draco—as seemed some unspoken agreement regarding their _unplanned_ meetings—spent any time in her presence acting like the same insufferable prat she remembered from their Hogwarts years, much as he had the day before, save for a few stolen suggestive glances. In an odd way, she found his behavior comforting, as though they were maintaining some imaginary status quo.

For her part, Narcissa attempted to make conversation at random intervals throughout the day by asking about Hermione's usual home-life. She tried to explain, but felt as though each time she went into the intricacies of muggle existence, Mrs. Malfoy suddenly lost interest. The older woman tried to hold the guise of concern for the subject, and, much like Draco's irritating and snarky indifference, Hermione was strangely comforted by the façade.

Mr. Malfoy—_Lucius_, Hermione reminded herself, but she was having trouble thinking of him by his first name—had come down ill, apparently, and spent the day closed off in his room. She tried to assure herself that this proved he _had_ been feeling sick when she'd spoken with him the previous day, because she couldn't possibly have seen what she'd _thought_ she saw in his eyes. The silence which usually wrapped the table while the family dined_ should_ have meant his absence wouldn't make a difference. Somehow, though, the room felt empty without him.

Like the library. She'd ventured in to exchange her books, almost expecting to see him at the desk in the corner. Standing in the room alone, turning her back on the vacant seat to replace her reading material and select new titles, she puzzled over how the shelf-lined space seemed colder.

Malfoy Manor was not a very warm environment to start, but the unoccupied desk made the place feel as still as a graveyard. That should have struck her as odd, she thought. When she'd entered the room yesterday, she'd not at first even noticed he was there, yet hadn't felt as though anything was wrong. Perhaps the sense of stillness was only because this was _his _home, not hers. Yes, that made sense.

Now that she thought on it, she couldn't be certain if the entire day had been truly been foggy, or if that emptiness only cast it as such in hindsight.

"I don't know what I'm waiting for," she lied to Crookshanks, who watched her through sleepy, narrowed eyes from his place in the armchair.

Biting her lip, she listened to the feline's steady breaths rumbling through his constantly stuffy nose.

"I already know he's not going to come here," she explained with a weary sigh. "And I'm most certainly _not_ going there."

No, _absolutely_ not! If she went to him for the third night in a row, their little meetings _would_ become a habit; not to mention the awful precedent she would set by always being the one to seek him out. But she'd thought perhaps, if she didn't go to him, then he'd—

"Oh, Hermione, just listen to yourself," she snapped in a whisper. "It doesn't matter what you thought _might_ happen, clearly he's not coming."

Rolling her eyes, she switched off the bedside lamp and pressed her cheek into her pillow. She didn't care if she never fell asleep at all; she was not setting a toe outside the room until the sun was up.

* * *

Draco glared at the door. He lay in bed, above the covers, his hands clasped behind his head. Hours had gone by, surely. And yet, there came no knock; no cautious creaking open of the door for her head to pop through and check if he was sleeping, or—though he'd never admit to the latter, despite it being _slightly_ true—if he was awake and waiting for her.

He squared his jaw as he pried his gaze from the door to stare at the canopy above his head. It was hardly as though they had any sort of arrangement in place. "Of course she's not coming, why would she be?"

It crossed his mind, as he reached an arm out to turn off the light, that he _could _go to her. But no, he dismissed the thought as quickly as it crept into his head. If Granger wanted him tonight, then she'd have come to him.

He shifted to pull his quilt up over himself. "I'm _not_ going over there," he whispered to the empty room, his tone lethal, as he forced his eyes closed, trying to will sleep to overtake him.

* * *

Lunch the next day proved to be an awkward, silent affair once more. Hermione excused herself from the table as quickly as possible. She nearly knocked over Mirell, who seemed waiting for the moment to clear her plate away.

Mr. Malfoy was attending to some business outside the manor and would not return until the evening, leaving his seat vacant once more. Narcissa looked up from her plate, but the girl was away from the table before she could say anything. For a moment, Hermione thought that she finally felt accustomed to her new, if temporary, home, but Draco seemed intent on unsettling her. He wouldn't look at her at _all, _and she thought, perhaps if she concentrated hard enough, she might actually see ripples of utter annoyance ebbing from him.

As she exited the room and began up the stairs, she heard him excuse himself, as well. Shaking her head, she continued upward, rounding the bend of the bannister and continuing up to the third floor by the time he reached the first floor landing.

"Granger!" He hissed in a loud whisper.

She pretended not to hear him. For some reason, she imagined that he was about to give her an earful. Though she was relatively certain what the subject would be, she didn't want to have this particular conversation anywhere his mother might stumble upon them, unannounced.

Continuing into the library, she attempted to still her nerves, to ease the tense set of her shoulders, as she waited for him to storm in behind her. And storm, he did.

He took a moment to close the door behind him. When she didn't budge, didn't even turn to face him, he walked up behind her and folded his arms across his chest. "Would you like to start or shall I?"

"Start what?" She lowered her head, her gaze on her fingers as she clasped and unclasped her hands in front of her.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe explaining what the bloody hell happened last night?"

With a confused frown, she darted her eyes about the room. "Nothing happened last night, Draco."

His head tilted to one side as he stared at her back. "Well, that would be my point now, wouldn't it?"

Hermione pivoted on a heel to face him. "Were you_ expecting_ me to pop up at your door again?"

"I was—" Scowling, a flicker of irritation flashed through his eyes and he took a step closer, his voice dropping low. "I'm loathe to admit it, but yes. I think I was."

Jaw dropping, her chestnut eyes narrowed at him. "Well, did it occur to you that maybe I was expecting _you_ to pop up at _my_ door?"

"Why would I have done that when, twice now, it's been you doing the 'popping' and it's turned out rather well, so far?"

Hermione spoke from between clenched teeth. "That's not fair; don't put this all on me. Clearly you wanted . . . _something_. You could have come to me."

He took another step closer, near enough now that he could touch her. "You_ clearly _wanted something, too, didn't make you leave your room, now did it?"

She rolled her eyes upward as she shook her head. "We agreed not to expect those . . . things to happen."

Draco nodded, taking another step. "We did."

For a long moment, she only chewed on her lip, holding his gaze as she tried to understand. "Then, why do we sound like two people who _were_ expecting something last night?"

He shot an arm out suddenly, cupping the back of her head and pulling her to him. A whimper escaped her as his mouth crashed down on hers, and she eagerly parted her lips for his tongue. Moving closer, still, he pressed his body against hers as he explored her mouth.

Breaking the kiss, he leaned back only enough to look into her eyes. "If I had to guess, I'd say _that's_ why."

She nodded, gripping her hands into his shirt and tugging him close for another kiss. Her tongue swept across his lips before darting into his mouth. She nipped and sucked at the tip of his tongue before forcefully pulling away and stepping back from him.

He only watched her as they both caught their breath.

"Don't leave this all up to me, the next time you want something, come and get it!" With that, she stomped around him to the door, yanked it open and disappeared into the corridor.

Nodding, he couldn't help a grin as he licked his lips. "All right, Granger."

* * *

Lucius arrived at the manor in time for dinner. He couldn't believe how stupid he was being. He'd hidden in his room like a frightened child yesterday, only he wasn't frightened. He simply hadn't wanted to be around that damned girl at all. And the worst part was, none of his sudden, strong, dislike of her was even her fault. She presented a weakness, that was the problem.

Mirell was at the door to greet him, taking his cloak and bustling off again as he walked through the house to the dining room.

Against his will, he halted in the archway. There _she_ sat, looking deceptively innocent against the swath of black satin Narcissa had dressed her in today. The low neckline gave an unfortunate hint of cleavage and he forced a breath.

What would it be like, he wondered, to walk up behind her and fold his arms around her? To slip his fingers along that tempting little line of bared skin. What would it be like to turn her around and dip his head, tracing the tip of his tongue between her breasts?

If he hoisted her up onto the table? Perhaps tugged her dress up around her thighs as he stepped between her legs to settle himself against her . . . .

_What sort of sounds might she make then?_

"Father?" Draco's voice cut into his wayward thoughts.

Lucius seamlessly turned the start his son gave him into a mere turn of his head.

"Are you still not feeling well?"

"I'm fine." He assured with a small and emotionless tight-lipped smile.

The door bell rang and Mirell came barreling right past them to answer it. Draco's gaze immediately shot to Hermione, who was already out of her seat to go hide in the kitchen.

"It's the Potter boy," the house elf said irritably.

Draco rolled his eyes, for some reason feeling his father mirrored his sentiment, as he muttered, "Why can't he _ever_ call ahead?"

Harry didn't bother with a greeting, passing them and striding into the dining room, the Malfoy men a few paces behind him. "Where's Hermione?"

"Harry?" She burst out of the kitchen at a run before Narcissa could respond, but a split-second from flinging herself on her best friend, remembered the lady of the house sitting at the table, watching the entire thing. Hermione settled for a polite hug, but worried at how tense he was in her embrace.

Pulling away, she met his eyes. The wire rim of his glasses just barely concealed dark circles. "Harry, what's wrong?"

He dropped his gaze from hers. "You'll want to sit down."

"No, I won't. Tell me what's wrong?"

"Hermione, please, I can't . . . "groaning, Harry pulled a chair from the table, clamped his hands over her hips and forced her into the seat. "Why can't you ever just do what's asked?"

Draco snorted a chuckle.

Taking a breath, and ignoring her affronted expression, Harry knelt down in front of her, lightly resting his hands on her knees. "I don't know how else to say this except to come right out with it. There's been another murder."

Hermione's heart fell into her stomach as the room seemed to chill around her. "What? But I thought you had everyone who might be a target hidden away by now!"

Brow furrowing, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor. He met her gaze. "We did. Nobody knows how it happened."

"What do you mean, nobody knows?" Draco asked, his face scrunched in dissatisfaction as he came around to stand behind Hermione's chair. "How can you not know? Isn't anyone doing their job?"

Harry's jaw set, but he refrained from looking at Malfoy. "It's being investigated. Right now, it looks like the victim left the safe house of her own accord. She was found on the grounds, her heart stopped. Like the others, _and_ like the others, it doesn't look like the killing curse. Whatever happened, it appears she walked out of her own volition with no warning whatsoever."

Hermione's skin crawled with itchy sensation of goose bumps and she wrapped her arms around herself. "No one heard or saw _anything_?"

Frowning, Harry answered with a shake of his head.

"Is she still safe here?" Narcissa asked, coming around the table to stand at Hermione's other shoulder.

"Yes, of course, she's—" he did a double take. There was something strange about the way Draco and Narcissa gathered behind Hermione, he thought. Not because of the notion of the Malfoys being protective of something outside themselves—thought, admittedly, that had an oddness all its own—but because she looked as though she belonged here.

It had to be the guise she'd assumed to blend with her new surroundings. Yes, that must be it. He'd ignore that the image gave him a sense that they were closing ranks around Hermione; pulling her in and guarding her as though she was one of their own. Harry reminded himself how utterly ridiculous he was to think an elitist, pureblood family like the Malfoys could _ever_ think that about a muggle-born witch. They would continue to keep her hidden away, that was all that mattered.

"She's still safe here," Harry assured her. "I'd have said otherwise immediately."

Narcissa let out a barely perceptible sigh of relief, placing an elegant, long-fingered hand on Hermione's shoulder for a quick moment.

Harry shook his head. "Look, I have to get back. I'm sorry I can't stay, but I knew you'd want any news that became available, even if it was _bad_ news."

He stood. pulling Hermione out of her seat and into his arms, hugging her tightly. "You have to promise me, Hermione. Promise me you won't leave the manor until this is sorted."

Lucius refrained from sneering at the scene, despite the sore inclination. The Potter boy didn't bother him in the slightest, simply that the scene he created—putting his hands all over her like that—was inappropriate. Yes, wholly inappropriate. Certainly Lucius had become prone to flights of the imagination where the girl was concerned, but he'd never act on those sordid thoughts. Such was unthinkable.

And the agitation he registered on his son's face, well, he easily attributed that to Draco not wanting to share his . . . new plaything.

Hermione managed a nod, slipping her arms around Harry's waist to return the hug. "I promise."

Draco rolled his eyes and looked away. More touchy-feely muggle-ness . . . . Appalling, honestly. The longer Potter had his arms around her, the more disgusted he felt with the picture they presented.

"I'll come back as soon as I can, okay?"

Nodding, Hermione pulled away. After a thought, she leaned up to drop a kiss on his cheek.

Harry froze as the corner of her mouth brushed over his.

She felt a jolt and stepped back, her eyes on Harry's. Whatever just happened, she couldn't think on it. Not _now_. Now all she could do was imagine different scenarios of this latest victim wandering, willingly, out of safety's reach.

Hermione cleared her throat and shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I just . . . want to be alone for a bit. I'll see you, Harry."

"Hermione, wait," he said, but she was already out of the room. Her footfalls, as she darted up the staircase toward her room, seemed to echo through the entire house.

Pursing his lips, Draco nodded as he slipped his fists into his pockets. "Smooth, Potter. You'd think after all the bad news you've received during the course of your life, you'd have learned better methods for delivering it."

He shot the pale-haired young man a long, withering glare before bidding Narcissa farewell. Lucius was so quiet that Harry had forgotten he was even in the room until he nearly tripped over the man while making his exit.

"Lucius," Harry said with a curt nod before ducking around him.

As the house elf led him out, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that when Lucius Malfoy had met his gaze, a hint of muted anger lurked in the depths of his eyes.

* * *

Harry tossed and turned. He realized he should be grateful to have any time at all to rest, and if he wasn't resting, he should be focusing on this most recent murder. But he couldn't do that, either.

Each time he tried, each time his eyes drifted closed, he again felt the brush of Hermione's lips across the corner of his mouth. It was an accident, clearly.

It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. She was like a sister to him, to think anything more on the matter was wrong.

But then why couldn't he stop lifting a hand to trace a fingertip over the place her lips had touched?

* * *

Hermione didn't expect the knock at her door. At least, not yet. The clock had only just struck ten, it felt entirely too early for Draco to come calling. And, she wasn't certain she was in the mood for it, either. She hadn't been sleeping, merely hiding under the covers as her tears dripped into the pillow.

Wiping a hand across her cheeks, she got out of bed and crossed the room. "Yes?"

After a moment—she imagined he was looking up and down the corridor, rethinking his presence outside her room—the reply came. "It's Draco. May I come in?"

Holding in a sigh, she opened the door.

He merely stood there, his gaze raking over her face. She could tell from his fearful expression that, like most males, the very sight of an emotional woman terrified him. "Have you been crying?"

Dropping her head back and groaning, she retreated into her room and he followed, closing the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, warily rounding Crookshanks' chair—giving the feline a wide berth, too—he lowered himself into the window seat. "You seemed . . . upset. I thought I'd just . . . come and check on you, is all."

She nodded, nearly breaking into a smile at how uncomfortable he seemed with the notion of expressing concern.

"Why _are_ you crying?"

Hermione sat on the bed, facing him as she forced a sniffle. "I don't want to cry. In fact, I hate it, but I can't help myself. I'm . . . I'm scared."

Sighing and rolling his eyes, he stood and walked over to her. "You know you're safe here."

She shook her head, uttering a mirthless chuckle. "That's the thing, isn't it? I'm sure the last victim, whoever she was, knew she was safe wherever she was hidden, too."

"We have no idea what happened, there," he pointed out, turning to sit beside her.

"Don't you see?" She frowned, throwing her hands into the air. "That's _why_ I'm scared. She was being watched and protected, and she just slipped away. And now she's dead. What am I supposed to make of that?"

His brow furrowed. "I don't know, maybe don't be stupid enough to wander about in the open when someone wants you dead?"

Scowling, Hermione tried to think out her jumbled words before letting them spill from between her lips. "No, I mean what if Harry's wrong?"

Draco shrugged, suppressing a grin. "I'm of the opinion that Potter is often wrong, but go on."

She ignored the insult to Harry; bickering with Malfoy wasn't going to soothe her anxieties. "What if she wasn't out there of her own volition? What if the killer has, I don't know, some way to lure his victims into the open? That would mean that it won't matter if I hide, I won't be safe anywhere!"

"Hey," against his better judgment, he touched her shoulder, turning her to face him. "You can't know that. There's not enough information to draw any such conclusion."

Somehow, as he spoke, she forgot to worry for a brief, flickering moment. Hermione instead watched his lips as they formed the words. She wanted his hands on her, his fingertips trailing over her skin; wanted so suddenly and so strongly, to feel his tongue plunging into her mouth.

Before she could stop herself, she moved closer to him on the bed and leaned into him. Tipping her face up, she brushed her lips along his jaw.

Angling his head to look at her, he arched a brow. "Do you need me to distract you again?"

Her cheeks warmed as she held his gaze. When had her life become about nothing more than pinging back and forth between fear and arousal? Probably the moment she'd agreed to share a bath with Draco Malfoy. She didn't want to feel fear anymore.

Nodding, she whispered breathlessly, "Yes, please. _Please_ distract me." She slid her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down on hers.


	5. Pretending

**Given the _lack_ of wizards/witches born out of wedlock in the source material, I'm assuming some magical element is involved, keeping witches & wizards from producing children until they go through marriage rites (marriage is, after all, a _ritual_ of binding). I'm also going to assume this knowledge is imparted to muggle-borns during their school years, and to pure & half-bloods by a 'birds & bees of the wizarding world' style conversation from their parents.**

* * *

**And yes, the Lucius-Hermione scene contains a little wordplay. For those of you who catch it, make of it what you will. ;D**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Pretending

Hermione rose up on her knees, pressing close to him as she traced his lips with the tip of her tongue. He opened his mouth, expecting her kiss. She surprised him, instead inhaling sharply, drawing the breath out of Draco and he shuddered, his arms winding around her.

He leaned back only enough to look at her, to watch her delicate fingers as they scrambled, clumsily, to pull off his shirt. Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he relinquished his hold on her, raising his arms to assist her attempt to undress him.

Yanking her nightgown off over her head, he cupped her face in his hands as hers flew to his belt buckle. "Granger, wait," he said in a breathy whisper.

She met his gaze, hazy chestnut eyes wide. Her words tumbled out fast, barely audible, "Please don't tell me to stop."

Once more biting his lip, he furrowed his brow in disbelief. "No, I said _wait_." He brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth. "I only need to say that, after last night and the night before, I don't think I'll be satisfied with any sort of substitution."

In her haze, it took Hermione a moment to decipher his meaning as she raised her knees, in turn, so he could slip off her knickers. Silly purebloods, couldn't he just say he wanted to have sex? But then the statement was for her benefit, after all.

"I understand," she said, her tone low and serious as she resumed unbuckling his belt, even as a blush warmed her cheeks.

Continuing to undo his trousers with one hand, she grasped one of his with the other and led it between her thighs.

Licking his lips, he kept his gaze on her face as his fingers slid between delicate folds. "Oh, I see," he murmured, finding her already wet.

Her eyelids fluttered as his fingertips brushed over her. She nodded as she tugged at his trousers, pulling them down his hips.

His fingers slid into her as he lifted from the bed enough to allow her to slip off the last of his clothes. He couldn't help the groan that escaped him at the feel of her body tightening around his entry.

She let out a whimper as she slid her hands into his hair, cupping the back of his head and guiding his mouth to her breast. "Don't tease, Draco."

"Who's teasing, _Hermione?_" He asked with a grin, drawing her nipple between his lips and suckling at it a moment before letting it slip free. "I'm only making sure you're ready."

Nodding, she straddled his lap. "It's funny," she said breathlessly, "we've known each other nearly a decade, but I don't think you've ever called me by my first name before."

Tipping his head back to look in her face as he positioned himself beneath her, he whispered, "Is this _really_ the time to discuss how we address one another?"

Holding her breath suddenly, she shook her head as he clamped a hand on her hip and urged her body lower. Her head dropped down and she clenched her teeth as he entered her.

"Am I hurting you?"

She shook her head, shifting her pelvis and letting out a sigh. "No, not really, it's just been a—"

"Good." His arms wrapped around her, hands gripping her shoulders and holding her to him as he thrust upward.

Hermione gasped, trembling as she locked her legs around him. He drove into her fast and hard, each stroke stealing the breath from her, yet all she could do was cling to him. She rocked her hips against his thrusts, aiding him to sink as deep as he could each time.

A growl-like sound rumbled in the back of his throat and he rolled, pinning her beneath him.

"Hey," she forced out the protest between moans and sharp breaths.

Draco shook his head. "Better leverage, Granger," he explained in a gravelly whisper, rocking his pelvis against her as he spoke to prove his point.

A tremor shook through her and she nodded. She lifted her head, lapping and biting at the side of his throat as she raised her hips, welcoming his thrusts. Her muscles tensed and she struggled with herself—she wanted him, so bad, to push her over the edge, yet didn't want this to end. His skin pressed to hers, his length pushing inside her, deep and hard, simply felt _too_ good.

Hermione threw her head back, biting deep into her lip to keep from screaming as the orgasm tore through her. She felt the change in his rhythm as he continued sliding into her, felt him tense above her, heard the shuddering breaths escaping his lips as he groaned from behind clenched teeth.

He couldn't help himself; he wanted to hold out, but everything about her body's response—the sounds she tried to silence, the deliciously savage digging of her nails into his flesh, the way the tight, moist warmth of her gripped around his length tighter, still—had him giving in, already.

"Damn, Granger," he hissed the words as the thrusting of his hips became frenzied and erratic.

As the warm, spiraling pleasure ebbed, she let out a breathless giggle. She replied in a murmur as she regained the ability to move, rocking beneath him as he came, "I should be saying 'damn, Malfoy.'"

Fine tremors ran through her muscles as she worked to keep his length sliding into her until he spent himself, entirely. She slowed by increments, uncertain when he finished.

"Stop," he said, his expression pained.

Hermione stilled instantly, watching his face.

He leveled his head, meeting her gaze. "That . . . area gets a little sensitive afterward."

"Sorry," she muttered with a sheepish grin. "Why did none of my ex-boyfriends ever tell me that?"

Shrugging, Draco withdrew and rolled onto his back beside her. "They were probably too surprised you knew to keep moving while they were coming."

Her brow furrowed, a little unsettled by how easy it was to slip into a conversation about sex, after having sex, with _Draco Malfoy_. Clearly when she'd set foot in Malfoy Manor that first day, she'd checked her sanity at the door without realizing.

"Is that really so unusual?"

Again he offered a shrug, still catching his breath. "Well, not every girl knows to do that, some of them just freeze up, like they're afraid to move."

"Oh, well, I read about all this before, well, you know."

A surprised chuckle burst out of him. "You _read_ about it. Of course you did, this is _you_, after all."

"Come to think of it, muggles have a lot of books on the mechanics of sex." She chewed her aching bottom lip for a moment. "An _extensive_ amount of books on the subject, in fact."

"Huh. Perhaps I've underestimated the usefulness of muggles all this time."

For the first time since she'd known him, he didn't pronounce the word _muggle_ as though the sound itself tasted bitter as it rolled off his tongue. She pretended she didn't feel a small bloom of warmth in the center of her chest at that observation.

Draco yawned and gave a long stretch before shifting to tug the quilt out from under him and then and covering himself with it.

"What are you doing?" she asked in mock-terror as she watched his eyes drift closed.

"C'mon, Granger," he murmured. "Don't make me leave yet. It's comfortable here."

Frowning, she shook her head. They should not be getting _comfortable_ with each other in this sense; they were supposed to still be sort-of-enemies who, occasionally, enjoyed carnal activities with one another. That shouldn't include falling asleep in each other's beds.

Yet, instead of protesting, she only slid under the quilt, reaching out to switch off the lamp. "Fine, but you're back to your room before the elves bring breakfast."

"Fine."

* * *

The room was still dark when Hermione opened her eyes; muted moonlight filtered in through the curtains. She shifted beneath the covers, nearly jumping when she brushed against warm skin.

Draco was still there.

She'd expected he'd have gone by now. Perhaps he'd forgotten whose bed he was in.

Touching his shoulder gently, she whispered, "Hey!"

"Merlin's beard, Granger, let a man sleep," he grumbled, pulling his pillow over his face.

Withdrawing her hand, she only blinked a few times. All right, so perhaps he hadn't forgotten where he was. She was going to pretend that didn't register on her mind in the slightest.

Sighing, she sat up and pushed back the quilt. As Hermione stood, she realized she didn't feel like fumbling in the dark to find her knickers and night gown. Instead she grabbed her bathrobe, belting it tightly around her. The armchair was notably vacant and she wondered where Crookshanks had disappeared to. He was probably hiding away, upset that she and Draco had interrupted his sleep with their bizarre human sounds.

She padded across the floor quietly and pulled the door open, popping her head into the corridor. All the portraits snoozed peacefully, and no sounds came from the depths of the ancient house.

Nodding, she slipped from the room and headed to the bathroom. As she reached for the knob, the door opened, and she found herself face to face with a sleep-disheveled Lucius Malfoy. Even rumpled and weary, he still looked oddly regal in his black silk pajamas and matched robe.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone else was awake," she spit the words out in a hushed, hurried tumble. She neglected to mention that _this _was the only bathroom on this floor that she rightly recalled the location of at this hour.

An expression flittered across his face that she thought looked like aggravation. "No need for apologies, such a thought was understandable. Good night."

Hermione stepped aside, allowing him to pass, but before she could stop it, her mouth was off and running. "Have I done something wrong?"

He halted, but didn't turn to face her, grey eyes wandering the length of the corridor. "Of course not. Why should you believe you had?"

"I don't know, it just feels as though you're angry whenever I'm about." She pulled the cuffs of her robe sleeves tight around her fists, fighting her own awkward agitation as she continued. "So I just wanted to say that I'm sorry if I've done something to overstep my bounds in your home, Mr. Malfoy." She might have once hated the Malfoys, but she was still a guest in their home; potentially still alive only because they'd offered to protect her.

He turned his head, but still didn't look at her. "Lucius," he said his name slowly. "I believe Narcissa told you to call me Lucius while you're here."

"L- . . . Lucius," she forced the word out with a nod.

Setting his head forward, again, his teeth sank into his lip for a long moment. He shouldn't have said anything at all, for now he knew what it _actually_ sounded like to hear her speak his name.

"It's fine, Miss Granger, you've overstepped nothing."

She found that an odd thing after he reminded her to call him by his given name. "Are you not going to call me Hermione?"

The set of his shoulders tensed, but he spoke smoothly. "You'll forgive me, but your first name is a . . . bit of a mouthful for me."

Nodding, she thought perhaps he was irritated _now _because she was keeping him from going back to bed. "I understand. Um, goodnight, Lucius."

He gave a short, stiff nod. "Goodnight, Miss Granger."

* * *

The girl disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Lucius stormed down the corridor to his room. Perhaps the next time she chose to sleep bare, she would think to close her robe adequately so such was not noticeable.

He opened the door quietly and stepped in. Closing it behind him, he simply stood in the dark of his bedroom for a long moment, listening to the soft, shallow breaths of Narcissa as she slept.

Yes, sleep. He was going to climb into bed, close his eyes and pretend. Pretend he hadn't seen that flesh of bare leg when she'd stepped back; that he didn't notice the way the opening of the robe dipped just low enough to show that she wore nothing beneath the thick, white material.

Pretend he didn't notice the mild swelling her of lower lip—likely his son's work. He determinedly pushed away a mental image of sinking his teeth into her lip, himself.

With any luck, by the time he was roused for breakfast, he'd have forgotten those tempt—terrible, those _terrible _glimpses.

* * *

Hermione shook off the oddness of that encounter. Or, she tried, as she finished using the bathroom and stepped back out into the corridor. In some strange way, she half-expected to find him still standing there, shoulders hunched, head ducked ever so slightly, as though he was listening for something.

She forced her thoughts to quiet. There was no way to know what troubled the mind of a man like Lucius Malfoy, so pondering such was useless.

As she opened her bedroom door and stepped inside, she found the lamp on. Her gaze fell upon the bed—the _empty _bed. Her shoulders sagged and she ignored that she was a little sad that Draco had left without at least waiting 'til she got back to say . . . something.

"Figures," she muttered, blindly swinging the door closed

"What figures?" Draco's voice came from behind her, giving her a start.

"Oh? Nothing," she said quietly, hiding a small grin as he stepped up and slid his arms around her. "I only thought you'd gone, already."

"Don't worry, I'll go," he agreed with a nod as he untied her belt and slid it from the robe, "but not _just_ yet. I was waiting for something."

"To say a proper goodnight perhaps?"

"Hardly," he said, looping the belt around her wrists and stepping past her, allowing her to see that he'd not dressed in her absence.

She remained silent, only pointedly dropping her gaze to her bound hands before meeting his gaze.

He hooked a finger in the belt and led her back to the bed. "I was waiting for another chance to _distract_ you."

Hermione couldn't hide the half-grin that played on her lips this time as a blush colored her cheeks. "My, but aren't you thoughtful?"

Draco winked as he whispered, "I'd appreciate if you didn't let that get out." He guided her to lie on the bed and pulled her arms up, slipping the looped belt around a knot on the headboard.


	6. Manifestations

**Note repeated from latest chapter of _Silver Blood_:**

**I want to apologize to readers of my recent HP fics who've come to expect quick, consistent updates. Nothing's happened, I haven't gone anywhere, I just haven't been feeling well as of late, so I've been spending the time I would normally write resting.**

**(I may also soon have to take an **official** break to focus on my book-writing, as I'm already severely behind [And, because I'm a super-compassionate mush, I took in abandoned newborn kittens & caring for them will take up a bit of time on its own]. I will do my best to keep you guys posted on that, though. If ever I seem to take 'too long' between updates, please check my site profile page, as there may be a message regarding the delay.)**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Manifestations

Harry frowned as he knelt to brush the tips of his fingers over the ground. Somehow, he imagined he could still feel the warmth of the body that had fallen on this spot.

They'd still found nothing. Well, nothing helpful, anyway. Whatever this curse was the killer used seemed terrifying in its own right. Self-made, like Snape's bleeding curse, yet this was nothing so visible or telling. This spell, whatever its creator called it, mimicked a Dementor's Kiss, only rather than sucking out one's soul, it sucked out their vital essence; the single, bright and perfect spark that gave a witch or wizard life.

And yet, as frightening as that bit of knowledge was, as much as it _should_ have told them, they hadn't uncovered a single clue as to the killer's identity, or any possible motive—outside of a likely homicidal hatred toward muggle-borns. They were also no closer to learning why the victim had _willingly _walked out to meet her death.

He glanced over his shoulder, gaze raking—in turn—over the other investigating wizards and witches present. _Any_ one of them could be involved, he thought as he forced down a gulp that was a mix of fear and anger.

Of course, if any of them were innocent, then they probably suspected the same of him. Harry Potter was nothing if not accustomed to invalidated accusations being attached to him, by now. The strangest part of which being that he had so often been suspected of wrong-doings simply because—_as_ The Boy Who Lived—he was automatically deemed the person _least_ likely to be suspected of such things.

He had received several suspicious looks, already, by merely claiming he possessed no knowledge of Hermione's whereabouts. Their close friendship made his statements of ignorance ring false, even to his own ears. He diligently kept his mind from turning to the whispered rumors flying about the wizarding world that something more, something _secret, _existed between them.

Harry didn't like to think about such things, not when they made him wonder if such was even possible. Perhaps something more _was _there between them, quiet, brewing, just beneath the surface. He shook his head sharply, disappointed at the selfish turn of his thoughts. She was his best friend, period, and he would not lose her, but she was only one target. He would not allow anyone else to lose a loved one to this psychopath if it was within his power to stop them.

Expression darkening, he stood and brushed off his hands against his trousers. Several times he'd imagined that if the culprit was particularly determined, and undeterred by his feigned ignorance, he might buckle under a few dozen applications of the _Cruciatus_ curse. Yet he felt safe in the simple knowledge that he was too high-profile a target, now.

No one would dare come after him to find Hermione for fear—or the reasonable, logical assumption—that they would be caught.

_Although . . . ._ If they thought he did know, if they thought he could be made to forget, and they _wouldn't_ be caught . . . .

Harry stepped away, immediately apparating once he was clear of the crime scene.

* * *

"Maybe this is a mistake," he said, the tumble of words barely a whisper, despite that once the door to Shacklebolt's office was closed, a charm automatically enacted to prevent eavesdropping.

Kingsley's eyebrows inched up high on his forehead, nearly touching his gleaming, vacant hairline. "I'm sorry, Harry, you're going to have to give me a bit more than that."

The young man uttered an exasperated sigh, green eyes rolling briefly. "I mean perhaps we've got this wrong—me pretending not to know where Hermione is. Maybe, if people thought I did know, if . . . if it slipped out that I've been in contact with her, or that I've visited her since she went into hiding, then someone would come after me to get the information."

Shoulders drooping, Kingsley nodded. "I see." He sat back, running a hand down his kind, yet recently so tired-looking, face. "I can't allow you to let anything of the sort _slip. _The problem in such a plan, Harry, is that you _do_ know."

"But—"

"I'm sorry. My answer is no; absolutely not." He fixed Harry with a pleading gaze. Certainly he could always stand, rising to his full height to tower over the younger wizard, but everyone knew Harry Potter did not respond well to intimidation tactics.

Kingsley softened his deep, booming voice as much as he could before going on. "You do know where she is. To let _anyone_ realize that potentially endangers both of you—your safety and her _life_. If your ability to protect her becomes compromised, what then?"

Harry scowled, dropping his gaze to the carpeted floor. The Minister was correct, of course, even if Harry didn't want to admit he was.

Now became Kingsley's turn to sigh as he stood and stepped around his desk to stand directly before Harry, clapping a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. "If you truly want to do this, we can simply remove the memory of her location from your mind and _then_ let it 'slip' that you know her whereabouts."

Harry's expression brightened immediately. Certainly he disliked the idea of not knowing where Hermione was, but—

"However, that would obviously mean you can't visit her again. Can't owl her directly, no communication whatsoever until this is sorted."

As quickly as his expression brightened, his face fell. Not see Hermione he understood, but not communicate with her—in any fashion—for who only knew how long?

Reading the sudden misgivings in Harry's eyes, Kingsley gave his shoulder a gentle pat. "I'll give you time to think on whether or not this is a route you really wish to pursue. But I can only allow you a day or two, no more. If it works than to take longer to start may risk more lives."

* * *

Hermione awoke to a mild, but delicious ache tingling through her body. She stretched beneath the blanket, luxuriating in the simple feel of waking slowly, at her own pace, before she even opened her eyes.

At last she sat up, raking the room with a bleary gaze as she finally retrieved her nightgown from the floor and sat back on the bed, slipping it on. Somewhere between the material whispering down her arms, and the pale garment briefly covering her head—momentarily obscuring her already compromised vision—her mind snapped to full alertness.

Yanking the gown into place, she looked over at the armchair, dark eyes wide. "Draco," she whispered in disbelief.

He—fully dressed, but looking a touch rumpled and sleep-deprived—only frowned, not breaking eye-contact with Crookshanks. The feline beast was perched on Draco's knees, glaring up at him.

Well, of course the cat was angry with him—Malfoy was sitting in what had quickly become Crookshanks new favorite sleeping spot. She answered his frown with one of her own, shaking her head. Did Draco even have a familiar? She couldn't recall ever having seen him with one.

Perhaps if he did, she thought, he might understand that by taking that seat, he'd committed a grave transgression in the cat's eyes.

"You're awake, finally." Draco tipped his head this way and that as he spoke; Crookshanks mimicked the motions, clearly refusing to give up. "You sleep like the dead. And you snore. Did you know that you snore?"

"I do not!"

At this, both occupants of the armchair briefly gave up on their staring contest to look at her.

Hermione bore their scrutiny for a few moments before caving in. "Fine, I snore _sometimes_ . . . but only when I'm really exhausted, and since you're the one who exhausted me, I'll thank you to keep your judgments to yourself."

Draco uttered, "H_mph_," the sound accompanied by a smirk, before returning his attention to her familiar.

"Why're you still here?" She forced out that most obvious question, ignoring the silent, inter-species row going on in front of her.

He kept his gaze trained on the cat's, but his expression changed, smirk fading instantly. "You were sleepwalking."

That collection of words alarmed her, setting off a cold, hollow ripple in the pit of her stomach. "I was what?"

"Sleepwalking, Granger. I was all prepared to go back to my room when suddenly you climbed out of bed and were ready to walk out into the corridor."

She furrowed her brow, trying to remember the moment of which he spoke. "Maybe I was half-asleep and just—"

"You were naked."

"Oh." Sitting up straighter, she blinked rapidly several times. "I see. Um, but I don't sleepwalk."

"Not usually, probably, but isn't it something that can happen when someone's under stress or in an unfamiliar place? You're dealing with both, so . . . ."

Though he wasn't looking at her, he could simply _feel _her gaze weighing on him. "You're not the only one who reads, Granger," he said with a minute shake of his head.

"Oh, right, of course."

He'd keep to himself the reason he could so easily supply an answer for possible causes of sleep walking. It was bad enough he constantly had to find excuses to return to Knockturn Alley to purchase his mother's sleep remedies.

"But . . . after you put me back in bed—I'm assuming that's what happened?"

Draco nodded.

"Right, well, you could've just left after that, couldn't you?"

"I could've, but what if you tried again? Given the . . . state of things, what if I left and you managed to wander outside in your sleep?"

"I—" Hermione didn't know what to say to that. _Draco Malfoy_ was concerned for her, yet if she reacted to that outright, he'd likely deny it. If she made any acknowledgement of his action—beyond that he was fulfilling his family's obligation to the Ministry—he might shut down entirely and this, whatever was going on between them, would be over.

She had no idea what _this_ was, but she wasn't fond of the idea of it being finished quite so soon.

"Thank you," was what she settled for saying.

The door creaked open and they both froze, despite their current appearance of perfect innocence, their gazes darting to the entryway. There Mirell stood, carrying the heavy silver breakfast tray. The little creature's enormous eyes flicked over Hermione, and then the member of the Malfoy family—seated ever so awkwardly in the armchair with the great, hideous puff of orange fur grumpily staring up at him from his own lap—before she gave an expression that Hermione thought might be the elf-version of arching an eyebrow.

"Mirell's not even going to ask," the little thing said with a shake of her head as she toddled into the room.

* * *

Lucius scowled darkly at the pages before him. Today, he'd chosen to seclude himself in his study, since the library seemed a dangerous location if his goal was avoiding that Granger girl. He hated to think he was hiding in his own home, but it was the only way to make certain that he'd not be distracted by her unannounced presence yet again.

He supposed he should consider it a reprieve that he'd not dreamed at all last night. In fact, given the glimpses he'd caught of her bare skin beneath her robe, he thought perhaps he should consider it a small miracle.

Certainly he'd tried . . . venting his frustrations on his own—to state the tawdry act delicately—but he was nearly positive that was somehow only making his predicament more difficult. Sighing heavily, he rubbed the heel of one of his palms against each tired, bleary, eye in turn as he sought to quiet his restless mind.

The sound of her voice, her habit of sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, those wide and deceptively innocent brown eyes blinking up at him . . . . Each of these was a thought he needed, _desperately_, to banish.

And yet, he still heard the echo of her saying his first name in the wee, dark hours of the morning. A corner of his mind still turned over that flash of her bare, slender thigh as she'd stepped back.

Only the creaking noise of the door to his study slowly opening cut through the mire. Only that intrusion made him realize his hand had crept beneath the desk; his fingers inching along his thigh completely of their own volition, it seemed.

Biting back a groan of shame and self-loathing, he snatched his hand away and set it atop the desk beside his reading.

"Lucius?"

Relief flooded him at the sound of Narcissa's voice speaking his name. Instantly the set of his shoulders eased and he leaned back in his chair, looking toward the door to see his wife there, one of the elves bringing in a tea service behind her.

"Leave us," she murmured to the elf, her worried gaze on Lucius' face.

The creature nodded and exited the room, pulling the door closed.

Turning her attention to preparing a cup of tea, she spoke softly. "I know things have been strained in this house, in this family, for a long while now. Ever since, well . . . ." The pause in her speech somehow felt louder than her words. "I'm worried about you, Lucius."

His brow furrowed, gaze raking over Narcissa as she brought the tea across the room and set the saucer carefully on his desk. "That's absurd. Why should you worry about me?"

Sighing lightly, she clasped her hands before her. "You've always been a . . . distant man, Lucius, but recently you've seemed quite a deal more remote, and you're so—"

"So _what_?" He hissed the words, dropping his gaze to the articles before him, but not actually seeing them.

Holding back a second sigh, she stepped closer. "Tired, Lucius. I dread to use the term, but wrung-out."

He let out a short, quiet chuckle. "That rather sounds like something Draco might say."

A half-smile lifted a corner of Narcissa's carefully painted lips. "Doesn't it, just?"

Cautiously she reached a hand out, pressing the backs of her fingers lightly against her husband's cheek. The Malfoy clan had never been much for signs of affection, but perhaps that was part of their problem, she thought.

Deep down, she expected him to shy away from her touch, or even push away her hand. Instead he tipped his head, pressing his skin more firmly against hers.

The warmth of the gesture—minor though it was—worried her. "What is wrong, Lucius?"

"Everything and nothing," he muttered. "There is something gravely out of sorts in our world, Narcissa, and I am powerless to do anything about it. Yet, it is through my own past actions that I am powerless, that our name no longer carries the weight it did; that I no longer have a high station within the Ministry, but am somehow still at their mercy."

Narcissa's finely groomed brows pinched together as she sorted through his rushed, tumbling words. "Is this about the investigation into the mud—into the muggle-born murders?"

Lucius' grey eyes drifted closed. He thought he'd done enough by offering to shelter that . . . that _girl_, that perhaps assisting in the investigation would see an end to this madness quicker—that they might catch the culprit sooner, rather than later, so that order might be restored to his home. But the Ministry shut him out. Not that he couldn't see their reasons; they thought he should be grateful to still have a post within their ranks, at all.

Sadly, he could not disagree. And sadder, he had no choice but to let Narcissa believe that was _all_ that troubled him.

The lids of his already closed eyes squeezed more tightly shut and he surprised her further, still, by slipping his hand over hers and dragging her fingers to press against his lips. "I simply want to feel at peace, Narcissa," he murmured.

She averted her eyes, attempting to ignore the heat flickering through her at the sensation of his mouth moving against the back of her fingers as he'd spoken. It was broad daylight out, and they were in his study, of all places!

No, this was simply an attempt at comforting himself, wasn't it? Yes, that was all a gesture such as this could be from Lucius Malfoy.

The minute trembling of her hand against him—so very subtle that he doubted she, herself, noticed it—gave him an idea; a notion as to how he might ease his discomfort. "You would help me, wouldn't you, Narcissa? To achieve a sense of peace?"

Lifting her gaze, she found he'd turned his head ever so slightly to look up at her. His grey eyes were bright with a strange sort of suffering and she could not help the gracelessly dropping of her jaw at the sight.

"Oh," she whispered breathlessly, though she was uncertain what he truly asked, "of course I would, Lucius."

Suddenly he was on his feet, so fast the action brought a startled gasp from her. His hand slid around the back of her neck and he pulled her close, his mouth crashing down on hers.

For a moment she allowed him, her lips parting for his tongue—hungry and thrusting in a way she'd not experienced in so _very _long—but his fierceness, his passion frightened her after such prolonged absence.

She pulled away, staring up into his face as she caught her breath. "This isn't like you, Lucius."

"Perhaps not," he said, his words quiet as his gaze traced her mouth, before locking on her eyes. Shaking his head, he continued, "But I need this from you, Narcissa."

_Need_, yes, that was the only word for this. She could hear it in his strained tone; could see it in his tortured expression.

"All right," she said, finally, her voice barely a thread of sound.

Nodding, a look of relief flitting across his features, he crooked a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face so their gazes met. "Turn around," he murmured.


End file.
